


Pictures of You

by Calebski



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 199,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calebski/pseuds/Calebski
Summary: Antonin's eyes studied the picture of the girl in the soft blue dress, as she was twirled around by a boy in Durmstrang robes. Krum eyed the girl, Hermione, his mouth set in a grim line. Her face could not have been more different, her eyes twinkled when he bowed, and she erupted into fits of giggles every time she was lifted, lighting up the whole picture with her smile.





	1. Chapter 1

There was nothing in the world  
That I ever wanted more  
Than to never feel the breaking apart  
All my pictures of you

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Hermione cut through the crowd of milling students and their parents, edging forward to board the Hogwarts Express. Begrudgingly she allowed Kingsley to levitate her trunk on behind her, she would normally have been more resistant to any act of _ gallantry, _ but she was too eager to escape the chaos of the platform. Chaos that had begun that morning as Molly Weasley attempted to boss around her brood, and anyone else that happened to cross her path, making the near fatal mistake of remaining motionless for two consecutive minutes. This year the disarray was exacerbated by the Order  _ insisting _ on an Auror escort to Kings Cross, and Sirius stomping around his family home, pouting like a child that had been denied pudding until he was allowed to come along as well.

The car ride over had been long, and despite the magically enlarged interior, overcrowded. Ginny was snappy, having woken earlier than she wanted, and Moody was on edge, barking at anyone and everyone with a vigour that was unusual even with his paranoid tendencies. Hermione had held herself as still as possible, avoiding eye contact with everyone. She noticed the Twins talking in hushed tones, their obvious scheming would usually have terrified her, but she was too focused on getting through the morning without having a breakdown to care about pranks. It wasn't that Hermione didn't like the Weasley's, far from it, she _ loved them _ . With her parents not able to take part in much of the magical world she now belonged to, they were her surrogate family. But Hermione was an only child, used to a quiet home and gentle conversation. The fiery family's display of camaraderie and affection could sometimes feel a little stifling.

After thanking Kingsley for his assistance, through gritted teeth hidden by a sweet smile, Hermione moved into an available carriage, breathing a sigh of relief that was woefully cut short when Harry and Ron crashed in behind her. Dropping into a seat she glanced out of the rain splattered window, resting her head against the cold glass, staring at the blurred movement on the platform. Their ragtag group had barely made it to the station on time what with all of the additional bodies, and the train was already beginning to stir into life. This was her favourite part of the journey; that feeling when the train started to move, watching the steam billowing up around the platform, the flurry of ubiquitous white clouds marking the end of the goodbyes and the beginning of the next year's adventures. It was melancholy and elation all at once, and it had always made her heart thump in her chest, the beats almost aligning with the shuddering turning of the wheels as they picked up motion. But, this year Hermione didn't feel the same nervous excitement fuelled by steam, she didn't have the same whirring in her mind as she mentally ran through the required book lists, and additional summer reading, excitedly attempting to predict what they would learn this term. In its place, she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Everything was different now.

Voldemort had returned. Harry had once again faced mortal peril only to be packed off to the unfeeling, detached Dursley's for the summer, forced to act like nothing had even happened. The memories had kept her awake that summer, Harry crouched over the cold, unmoving form of Cedric Diggory, the hush of the crowd as loud as the most vicious spellfire. Many nights she awoke, legs tangled in damp sheets panting for breath, and she had only witnessed a mere fraction of the horrors that her friend had faced. Then they had been prevented from writing to him; her protests had fallen on deaf ears with the headmaster. Hermione always wanted to believe that adults, professors, knew best but as Dumbledore’s eyes had sparkled over his half-moon glasses while he muttered about the greater good she was no longer sure. His summer of isolation had left Harry perpetually oscillating between silent seething and white hot rage. Hermione didn't blame him for his pendulous mood changes, in fact, sometimes she wondered how it had taken so long for him to become angry. Unfortunately, her empathy didn't make him any easier to be around, with his biting comments and scathing looks, Hermione felt  _ uneasy  _ in her friend's presence for the first time since they met.

She turned away from the window to peek over at the boys; they were chatting happily with Neville, who must have joined their carriage in the last few minutes. She vaguely heard Neville start talking about Quidditch, a reference to the Canon's, and she instinctively turned to Ron groaning internally. He was gesticulating wildly with his arms, and Harry's shoulders shook in silent laughter. Ron was always able to blunt the edge of Harry's temper, and for that she was grateful, his method was distraction, an art that Hermione had never mastered. She leant her head back against the faded seat cushion and observed her red haired friend from the edge of her vision, so as not to arouse his suspicion. Her feelings towards Ron, she could acknowledge, if only to herself, were confused. Much as she may have wished to, she didn't seem able to move beyond the events of the previous year, his jealousy over Harry being named a Triwizard Champion and then his behaviour at the Yule Ball. Hermione had always felt there was  _ something there _ with Ron and, despite her insecurities, had believed he returned some kind of warm feeling, something that extended past a friendship born of keeping their mutual friend alive. One of those 'our time will come things', but then there had been a ball, and he hadn’t asked her. Hermione had tried to reason that maybe one day, when there wasn't a homicidal maniac trying to change their lives entirely,  _ perhaps then?  _ That argument failed to buoy her spirits when she considered the young people around her. The looming war wasn't stopping anyone else from dating, even Harry, pressurised as he was, still managed to pencil in an alarming amount of time to pine for Cho Chang. It made her feel disconnected from those around her; it wasn't for the first time.

When Hermione had returned home at the end of the year, her parents' had immediately known something was wrong. After being gently prodded by her father, and not so gently harassed by her mother, Hermione broke. Over three cups of tea and half a pack of the 'emergency' biscuits her mum kept, just in case Nanny Granger came over, she explained all about her tangled feelings towards Ron. The conversation had felt a little silly at first. Hermione chastised herself for caring about such things when the world around them was crumbling, but as her awkwardness in talking to her mother, to anyone, about something she had never voiced subsided, she allowed herself to be a teenager girl and nothing more. Just this once. In the comfort of her childhood home, blanketed by love.

Hermione knew she couldn't disclose anything about Voldemort, much as she sometimes wanted to. She tried to tell herself it was because her parents wouldn't understand but that wasn't entirely accurate. Whatever else David and Jean Granger were, they were intelligent and practical people, who had taken the news that their only child was magical, if not in their stride, with a minimal amount of fuss. The real reason, her heart whispered to her, was that she couldn't stand the thought of revealing that she had lied to them, lies by omission maybe, but she had been heavily editing her version of school life since the very first year. Hermione didn't want to tell them that the world she had felt so  _ relieved _ to find, hadn't accepted her readily, and some factions of it wanted her dead for no other reason other than her existence.

So she focused on what she could say, and Jean had patiently listened as Hermione explained about Viktor noticing her and Ron's cruel words.

_ "My mother always told me that boys pull the hair of the girls they like," Jean said. Hermione forced her face to smile at the unhelpful cliché, and her mother laughed knowingly at her daughter’s unimpressed face. "Yes, I always felt that the explanation fell rather short when it came to adolescence. But that is where you are like me Hermione, a bit of an old soul. You can't expect these boys to understand you; they haven't quite matured enough yet." _

_ "Is that why you fell in love with Dad?" Hermione asked, with a wry smile. Jean had been married at the relatively young age of twenty-three, by Muggle standards at least, to David Granger, a man ten years her senior. _

_ "Yes, amongst other reasons," her mother responded still laughing, though her eyes were downcast. "You would do well to forget about Ron for this year, focus on your exams and... maybe you could spend a bit more time with your girlfriends." Ignoring Hermione's snort, she continued, "You may not believe me, but having female friends at this time in your life can be a great comfort. I know you don't care for the girls in your dorm, but there is more than one kind of friendship. Not all girls sit around talking about boys all day, although there will be a time when you will enjoy a bit of that yourself," Jean winked in a conspiratorial fashion and finally drew a laugh from Hermione. A small one. _

_ "Girls," her mother pressed, in a slightly more serious tone, moving to wrap an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. "Girls, mature emotionally before boys at your age, and by devoting time to other friendships might," she paused looking directly into Hermione's eyes, "it might make you feel less lonely." _

_ "But Mum, I not-" _

_ "Especially," Jean interrupted loudly, "If you have one of your yearly fall outs with Harry and Ron, leading to them freezing you out for weeks on end." _

Hermione  _ hated _ to agree with her mother, but the logical side of her brain knew that Jean was right. The only girl she knew anywhere near well was Ginny. The adolescent that was once ‘little Ginevra Weasley’ had matured dramatically over the last year, moving past her childish crush on The-Boy-Who-Lived and transforming from a shy, skittish girl, who would blush at the sight of Harry's shadow, to a smiling young woman, with a brash sense of humour and an air of  _ unstoppable _ self-confidence. Where Hermione had remained relatively small in stature, Ginny had shot up, her body maturing along with her personality. Hermione wasn't jealous, as such, she still ranked a great number of things as more important than appearance, but she couldn't help feeling that she didn't come out favourably in the comparison. She was also readily aware that she had nothing of the sense of self that Ginny displayed. Sure she was verbal, and never afraid to raise her hand in class, or shout the odds at someone, but where Ginny's tenacity came off as her  _ having spirit, _ Hermione's was interpreted as being condescending. She didn't yet know how to channel herself in social situations and still felt uncomfortable around people she didn't know well.

So, despite her immediate, and  _ lengthy _ reservations, Hermione had promised to follow her mother's advice and at least attempt to spend more time in female company. As that was unlikely to include her dorm mates, Lavender and Parvati, that meant Ginny and maybe even, dare she even think it, attempting to make  _ more friends _ . Hermione swallowed, well, if that didn't go to plan she would at least owl her parent's more frequently this year.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts she barely noticed the comings and goings in the carriage, though she paused her internal contemplation to deliver ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes’ when Ginny entered, and the boys left to change. Without her really knowing it they arrived at Hogsmeade Station, and if anyone had noticed her reflective mood, they didn't say anything. It wasn't unusual for her to be inside her own head, though normally it would be academics her mind would be chewing over, instead of her myriad shortcomings. As she doubted the other occupants of the carriage were accomplished Legilimens her thoughts were probably safe.

Their little group exited the train and attempted to navigate through the throng of students. Hermione repeatedly huffed in annoyance, being short made crowds rather intimidating, even if this one consisted of only other children. Rather than panic, she fell back on her go to crowd handling strategy and grabbed onto one of the loose straps on Ron's bag. He’d had  _ another _ growth spurt over the summer, making him much more equipped to steer through th e masses than she was. His size, when combined with having _ the _ Harry Potter stood next to him, meant the gathered horde moved out of their way, and Hermione was able to skip along in a clear path behind them.

Upon arriving at the carriages, Harry stopped abruptly, causing Hermione to crash into the back of him. A delicate hand prevented her tumble, and she looked up into the porcelain doll-like face of Luna Lovegood. Luna, however, was not returning her gaze, she was focused on Harry in her typical absent way. "You're not imagining things; I can see them to you know," she breathed out dreamily. Everyone turned to look at her, and then back to the empty clearing, sharing puzzled looks.

Hermione knew most of the students in Ravenclaw house, mainly as it was most frequently those students that she encountered in her beloved library. Her dealings with the now fourth-year had been limited, but she had definitely  _ heard  _ of her. Luna appeared to Hermione as a sort of Frankenstein's Monster of Muggle literature and film references of what a ‘good witch’ would look like; a touch of the floating angel-like quality of Glinda from the Wizard of Oz, and a dash of the dress sense of Magrat Garlick from Terry Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters. Her white blonde hair was virtually as pale as her face, her large wide eyes almost too blue, Hermione found it difficult to maintain eye contact with her for long, she couldn't help but fidget under the girl’s gaze.

Forcing herself out of the introspective state she had indulged in for the last few hours Hermione broke the silence. "Everyone this is Looney Lovego-" realisation dawned, and her heart dropped right down to her sensible shoes. “Oh, I'm... I meant… this is…  _ Luna, this is Luna Lovegood, _ " she blushed furiously, feeling bitter bile climb her throat. After a couple of deep breaths, she chanced to look up to see Luna regarding her, not harshly, her mouth seemed to pull into a small smile. Everyone rushed to make introductions, their words washing over each other in a transparent attempt to cover the awkward moment as they entered the carriage together. Following her blunder Hermione kept her eyes averted and her mouth firmly closed.

As the horseless carriage, at least to her, pulled into the Hogwarts grounds she suppressed a sigh.  _ Good job on the making friend's front _ , she chastised herself.  _ Oh well, I can try again next year. _

* * *

Even after a few weeks had lapsed, Hermione was feeling no more at ease. She used the 'quiet reading time' Umbridge insisted on in Defence Against the Dark Arts to stare at the back of Harry's head. Her gaze would surely have been robust enough to  _ force _ a psychic connection through sheer force of will alone, if she believed in such drivel. With silent, pointless concentration she willed him to control his temper. Could he not see that Umbridge was  _ enjoying _ pushing him into making increasingly damaging outbursts? Their ‘professor’ wanted him to lash out, to make claims so she could humiliate him in class, add to the evidentiary consensus of his failing mental state, and assign yet another medieval detention. Given the amount he had already incurred since the start of the school year, it was likely that Harry would leave Hogwarts with the incredible distinction of being the first student ever to pass a legacy of detentions on to his future children. When Hermione had calmed enough to take her eyes of Harry for whole minutes at a time, she practised wordless and wandless silencing spells. It may have already been too late for his children, but she could hopefully save his future grandchildren from cleaning the trophy cabinets and picking up after Filch.

Her growing exasperation aside, Hermione did not feel in any way  _ above _ the hatred Harry had for the woman, she shared it, and shared it  _ vehemently _ . But at her core she was a practical girl, something needed to be done, and not in the way that Harry was going about it, that was playing right into her chubby hands. Whatever the Ministry wanted to believe, the fight was coming to them, and soon, they needed to be ready. Harry  _ needed _ to be ready. A year of learning nothing while he slowly wound himself up was not going to help, and of course, she needed to pass the O.W.L., not even an emerging Dark Lord and government bungling was going to stop her from getting the grades she deserved.

Her mind leapfrogged from potential plan to potential plan, dismissing them just as quickly as she thought them up. Hermione knew they couldn't go to the teachers; they were in it up to their necks as it was. If Professors McGonagall and Snape had both submitted to increasingly ridiculous class inspections, they were obviously unable to circumvent the Ministry overstepping at Hogwarts. Hermione had been surprised by the flagrant disregard both had shown the woman, particularly Professor McGonagall, surprised and  _ delighted _ . That said sarcasm wasn't going to be enough, and if she couldn't rely on the pre-established authority, she would need to look to the people. Then it hit her, her head snapping up with the surge of excitement rushing all the way to the tips of her fingers. The quick movement startled Ron next to her, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last fifteen minutes. He momentarily lost his balance on his stool, wobbling with abandon, as soon as he stabilised his chair he glared pointedly in her direction, Hermione couldn't stop beaming at him, her face reflecting the new feeling of hope she now had, which only seemed to anger him further. The class broke out seconds later and the trio filtered into the corridor falling into step with each other.

Ron shoved between her and Harry, "Oi Mione! What the hell was that in there? I nearly fell off my chair," he snapped.

A cruel smirk overtook her face, "I was pondering about Umbridge, and I got to thinking about how the students can't be expected to do anything if the teachers can't," she remarked, pointedly ignoring Ron’s irritation.

"Yes, we are aware of that Hermione," Harry interjected angrily, and Ron gave her a warning look.

"Yes, I know, sorry Harry,” she placated quickly, hoping to avoid a minor explosion. “What I meant was,  _ I was thinking about that, _ and it triggered a thought about the French Revolution."

"The French what?" Ron questioned bemused.

"In 1789-" Hermione began.

"Ung," Ron groaned, "Can we wait until  _ after _ we've eaten for the History lesson?"

Hermione was undeterred but mentally conceded the point. There would be no winning them over if she started this conversation in a corridor before dinner. "I think it's time to start action citizens," she loudly pronounced as she quickened her step, drawing stares from across the corridor.

"What on earth?!" Harry said staring after her.

"No idea mate," Ron replied with a shrug.

"Come on, no lollygagging, Ron's right we need to eat. After all, an army marches on its stomach," she shouted over her shoulder. Ron and Harry exchanged puzzled looks before taking off at speed to catch her up.

* * *

To be safe Hermione waited for a _long_ while after dinner to finally resume the subject. She had sat impatiently waiting for the common room to clear until eventually, her nerves frayed and she snapped at a couple of second years she deemed to be dragging their feet, patience was never her strong suit. She felt a small thrill at using her Prefect status to enable a conversation that _definitely_ would not be about following the rules, only to immediately wonder what was happening to her. "The main idea," she started when they were alone, "is that there are _more of us_ than there are teachers. As in any hierarchy, the control at a school is an illusion; the faculty rule us because, generally speaking, _we behave_. But what if we don't? What if we start to make life difficult with a view to disrupting Umbridge's control?"

"Professor Umbridge," Harry corrected with a smirk.

"Not now Harry," she replied in a warning tone, but she couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips. She knew she could be uptight, but showing respect for authority figures was something hardwired within her. It was a big deal for her not to use Umbridge's title, and once she had made the decision she had to fight against herself saying it automatically each and every time. "You know more than anyone that this isn't a year we can afford to sit around not learning anything. We need to set up a way in which we can make sure we are prepared; that is the primary goal. Hopefully, some of the disruptions will keep her from finding out what we’re doing."

"So what’s your ‘ _ Grand Plan’ _ ?" Harry uttered sarcastically, a look on his face that Hermione did not care for at all, though he couldn’t hide the glimmer of excitement in his eyes, she knew that she had peaked his interest.

She glanced at the floor contemplating the best way to phrase her response for a couple of seconds, she was hesitant about his reaction, but there was no real way to go other that come right out with it. "I think we should start an underground organisation. A defence club, and...I," she breathed in, "I think you should lead it, Harry, be the teacher."

Harry regarded her, eyes narrowed for an anxious moment, "No," he said firmly.

"But Harry," she protested.

"I said  _ no _ Mione," he snapped back.

There were several seconds of silence and Hermione tried to work out her next line of attack, she was pretty sure shouting was going to make the situation worse and it seemed a little early in the negotiation for tears.

"Listen, mate," Ron said hesitantly breaking the tense silence and turning towards Harry, "maybe it's not such a bad idea? You've said it yourself; we can't carry on doing nothing."

Harry stared at both of them in turn then shut his eyes nostrils flaring; Hermione looked at him and bit down on her bottom lip to stop herself from saying anything more, not wanting to relinquish any ground Ron had just brought them. "I'll think about it," he ground out finally and stood abruptly to leave the common room.

"Thank you, Harry, that's all I ask," she called after him as he sloped towards the boy's dorms. Sighing back into the chair she looked over at Ron, "Thank you," she murmured, "he will be much more receptive with you on board as well." She hadn't anticipated Ron’s active support but was exceptionally glad to have it.

Ron smiled slightly, "It was a good idea; he can't carry on like this, we can't carry on like this," he said as he rubbed his palm over his already messy hair. Hermione smiled in return before saying goodnight and stretching before Ron’s voice made her pause.

"One thing?" he called out to her.

"Hmmm?"

"How exactly are you supposing to go about 'disrupting the control? You're not a novice with this sort of thing, but your last major actions involved knitting hats and liberating a hippogriff, agitating the masses seems a bit of a leap even for you," he kept his voice level but his eyes danced with poorly concealed amusement.

Hermione smiled beatifically, "Well, any good aspiring revolutionary is aware of their strengths and limitations, for the club to work it needs a leader; thus I attempt to draft Harry, we need disruption, I plan to outsource."

* * *

All things considered, the 'persuading Potter' element of Hermione’s plan had gone relatively smoothly. After herself and Ron had coerced his begrudging consideration Hermione forced herself to not raise the matter with him again; he had to come to her. A very long week of chewed lips and frazzled hair later he brought it up, on their way back from the Herbology Greenhouses. "I'll do it," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed straight ahead and Hermione decided not to test him by enquiring what he was referring to.

"That's wonderful Harry, I really think this is the best solution," she enthused, hoping the eagerness of her tone covered the sigh of relief.

"What do we do now?" he asked, brows furrowing, and Hermione placed a hand on his to halt his progress.

"Now we arrange a meeting for _ interested parties, _ " she elaborated. The plan had always been very simple. One of the biggest downsides to school life was how quickly word of something could get around, in this case, Hermione was looking to exploit it to her advantage.

"How are we going to know who the interested parties are?" Harry inquired lightly.

Hermione swallowed and smiled sheepishly up at him, "I may have already put some feelers out,” she rushed out as his eyebrows knotted. “There is a good level of enthusiasm; I think we need to arrange a meeting to answer questions and set some expectations," she trailed off as her mouth went dry under the weight of his scowl.

"You did this before I said yes?" he probed coolly.

"You were always going to say yes Harry," she said brightly trying to keep the confidence in her voice, to attempt to conceal that she didn't wholly believe that. The Harry of last year would have said yes, possibly after a few limp protests but he would have agreed. She hadn't been certain of him this year. Her backup plan had been to have a few different students teaching different things, but it wasn't a perfect solution.

Harry’s glare intensified momentarily, and Hermione braced herself for a potential eruption, but then he unexpectedly sighed, his body sagging as he looked at her resigned. "When are we meeting?"

She grinned up at him, and tucked her arm underneath his, resuming their walk back to the castle. "Not to worry, it's all in hand."

* * *

"Well, that went well," Harry bit out caustically. The trio had just left the first meeting, for what was still a  _ potential _ defence club. Hermione had suggested meeting at the Hog's Head to avoid too many awkward questions, a decision she was grateful for when  _ many  _ more students had shown than they had been expecting. Despite a rocky start, with a few hostile questions and disbelieving murmurings, it had gone pretty well, all things considered, whatever Harry might have thought.

"Come on mate; it's not like we didn't know that Smith’s a dick," Ron chided.

"Language Ron," she chastised.

"Well,  _ he is _ Mione" Ron protested in a whining tone. Zacharias was never going to be popular with the boys, and privately Hermione agreed with Ron’s assessment, though she probably wouldn't have used that word.

"If you say so Ronald, the point is he had to eat his words once we talked about what you can do Harry. There are many  _ adult _ wizards that cannot produce a Patronus that takes corporal form."

"You're only saying that because you can't do it!" Ron shouted, his raucous laughter cutting through the tension in the conversation. He stepped to the side in expectation of Hermione’s punch to the shoulder and slipped on a patch of black ice, his legs speeding back and forth as he attempted to keep himself upright, rendering Harry and Hermione immobile with giggles. With the mood now lifted they headed back towards Hogwarts at speed, on the promise of getting out of the cold and shepherd's pie for dinner.

* * *

Hermione scanned the parchment in her hands, her eyes lingering over the different script and ink types, the scratches and blots making up the list for the newly formed Dumbledore's Army or DA for short. She bit down on her lip,  _ had the jinx really been such a good idea? _ While she could probably say, hand on heart, that some protection had been advisable, not telling those that signed was probably a bit sneakier than strictly necessary.  _ Says the girl that trapped Rita Skeeter in a Mason jar, _ her mind rebuked. A sudden noise to her left made her startle, and she turned in time to see Luna dropping into the chair beside her. "It wasn't wrong you know," Luna spoke, not taking her eyes off the parchment still resting in Hermione's grasp. "You were only protecting those you care about, and you signed your name too." Hermione gaped at her wide eyed before flipping the paper over and back again in her fingers,  _ how could she tell? _

"Don't worry your secret is safe with me," Luna whispered with a smile before turning to focus on the tome she had on the desk in front of her. Hermione wasn't sure if Luna was talking about the DA in general or confirming that she could see spells like a human X-Ray machine.

Rather than probe, Hermione stumbled out a ‘thank you’, realising that she wasn't thanking her for the secret keeping, even if it was about the parchment. No, she was thanking Luna for the little piece of absolution she had given, for telling her that what she had done was ok. Maybe it didn’t make her a nice person, but it was  _ ok _ . After the initial greeting, the two girls worked next to each other in what Hermione felt was comfortable and companionable silence. It continued for around an hour before the waiflike blonde turned to face her again. "What are you working on?" Luna asked politely

Hermione stilled and the fingers of her hand resting on the book in front of her splayed unconsciously, whether to hide the text from view or to find some grounding from the feeling of parchment beneath her fingers she had no idea. She contemplated lying, telling the truth would be betraying a trust,  _ Harry's trust _ . Something that he wouldn't be particularly willing to overlook at present. She warred with herself; Luna never pushed as she debated, she just continued to look at her amiably until Hermione felt herself sag. "I'm looking for a balm or potion that would help with the curing of deep cuts, specifically to reduce residual pain and prevent scarring," she tried to keep her voice as clinical as possible. She had been venturing to think of it in the same way, ever since Harry had told her about the detentions and showed her the evidence. She gave it her best effort to talk with complete detachment when it came to Umbridge; the practice didn't work as effectively with her thoughts, however. 

Hermione was consumed by such an overwhelming feeling of disgust for the self-appointed authority within the school that she almost entirely forgot Luna was there. When she looked back up, expecting to see a face full of a million questions, as hers would have been, she saw Luna digging through her school bag. Hermione watched in silence as an array of strange objects were removed from the bag and placed on the desk. Distracted by a gadget that appeared to have metal teeth surrounded by purple feathers she was totally unprepared for Luna to grab her wrist and deposit a small pot onto her outstretched palm. The Ravenclaw had a triumphant smile on her face.

"Murtlap Essence," she chimed, "I asked Professor Snape in my last potions lesson what the best remedy would be and he suggested this, I've been carrying some around.”

Hermione regarded the tiny pot and looked up at Luna's expectant face. She couldn't believe it. She had been looking for a solution for weeks and Luna had just asked Professor Snape. While that was perfectly logical Hermione knew she could never have risked asking the dour Potions Master. Though she certainly didn't hate him in the same way that Ron and Harry did, she still hadn't forgiven him for his comment last year regarding her teeth, more than that she simply didn't trust him not use the information against Harry somehow. Hermione huffed out a laugh; _ I wonder if Professor Snape is a confounded by Luna as I often am _ ? She grabbed Luna's hand with her free one and squeezed it lightly for a second. "Thank you," Hermione said earnestly, "this is a weight off my mind and,  _ just thank you. _ " Luna grinned at her and nodded in understanding, and with that, the girls went back to their quiet study.

* * *

Hermione had been stalking around the castle for the best part of an hour, that the individuals she was hunting were remaining elusive was unsurprising, they had a knack for not getting caught, even when they were the main suspects, and were  _ very, very guilty _ . Just when she was reconciling herself to give up for the day, a movement at the end of the corridor caught her attention. She darted behind a nearby tapestry and watched as two second year Gryffindor's left one of the abandoned classrooms. They exited the room at a quick pace, talking animatedly among themselves in a low register, their eyes pouring over the form in front of them. Hermione's eyes lit up.  _ Got you _ .

She rushed down the corridor towards the classroom the students had just vacated. Halting abruptly when she was only a couple of steps away as another couple of second year Gryffindor's rounded the corner stopping dead at the sight of her. The scene reminded her of a western movie, both boys facing her with matching guilty expression, not saying anything, as if debating their next step. Before the situation dissolved into a wand fight at the O.K. Corral Hermione started talking. "If you will excuse me, I need to speak to the occupants of this room; you can come back later." She did her best to draw herself up and peer down her nose at them to assert a sense of authority, which was not easy given she was only about an inch or two taller than they were. One of the boys opened his mouth to say something in rebuttal. "Unless you would like me to speak to Mr Filch? I'm sure he would be  _ very interested _ to know  _ why _ you are here."

The boy closed his mouth abruptly, and they both retreated. Hermione waited until they had turned the corner fully before grasping the door handle and swinging it inwards. "Good afternoon Gentleman, so this is where you moved your operations after I bossed you out of the Common Room," she exclaimed with false cheer in her voice. The Twin ginger haired figures with their backs to her froze and spun around to face her simultaneously. Her smugness evaporated quickly. Acting quicker than she would have thought possible they each linked an arm under one of hers and began dragging her bodily from the room, despite her trying to slow their progress by squirming and kicking. "STOP!" Hermione shouted, and stomped her foot involuntarily, wincing when she realised how much this made her look like a petulant child. She untangled herself from their limbs and took a step back to be able to look up into their eyes. "I'm not here to shout at you," she began, and Fred raised a brow incredulously. "Despite my feelings on this whole enterprise being  _ incredibly suspect, _ " she continued, and George snorted. "I came here to talk," she implored, trying for a soft tone, though not quite managing it.

The twins shared a look, "Then talk Granger," Fred began, crossing his arms over his chest, a movement his brother quickly replicated.

"Yes talk, step into our office," George finished, making an elaborate sweeping motion and directing her to a chair.

She outlined her revolutionary epiphany from earlier in the week, being careful not to reference the word  _ revolution _ , she wanted the Twins assistance, but she didn't think it would be useful to educate them on the effectiveness of mass civil disobedience to the extent of beheading or the Storming of the Bastille. 

"So, for the DA to work, and to prevent Umbridge doing any _ real  _ damage while she's here, we need some distractions, things to keep her occupied, to undermine her authority. Things that when they start mounting up will, at some level, call into question her capabilities as a witch," she concluded, her arms coming to rest on the side of the chair she had all but been thrown in.

The boys both leant forward simultaneously an action that would have been unsettling if she hadn't seen it countless times already. "So why call on us Granger? After all you're supposedly very bright," George said, eyes regarding her contemplatively.

"Brightest witch of the age, so they say Freddie."

"That's right Georgie, so why do you need us?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at their smiling faces; they were enjoying this. "I came to you for your…  _ expertise, _ " she replied as sweetly as she could manage, though the words felt somewhat dragged from her throat.

The Twins shared another quick glance at each other. "We're glad you finally came to your senses Granger, Georgie and I will be working on this as a matter of priority" Fred beamed smugly.

“Excellent!” she exclaimed, happily jumping onto her feet, “Though this doesn't mean I have changed my opinion on you canvassing in the common room for your products, and I'm still not happy about the testing on the first years."

"It's perfectly safe Granger," George started.

"Within reason," Fred qualified.

Hermione glared.

"We'll be careful," they said together.

Hermione exited the room quickly after that, the less she knew about the Twin's enterprise, the better. She briefly wondered what was happening to her moral compass, but she quickly shook the thought off. After all, what was a revolution without a few radicals?


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the worst of her expectations, Hermione found that organising the initial meeting of the DA had been pretty easy, _too easy,_ as it turned out. She had thought The Hog's Head the perfect spot for a covert conclave, the grimy pub was unlikely to have other students or even staff amongst its Saturday morning patrons. If half of the tales Hagrid told had even a glimmer of truth, the general illegalities occurring under its roof suggested anyone that _was_ present would likely turn a blind eye to a group of rule-breaking school children. All of those considerations were for nothing when she realised they had been overheard. Umbridge had somehow been informed of their meeting, resulting in _Educational Decree No. 24: banning any student organisation that hadn't already been approved by the High Inquisitor_. Which was what Umbridge was referring to herself as now, _the_ _jumped up cow_. Hermione hadn't thought her worthy of ‘professor’, to elevate herself above it seemed ludicrous.

Hermione couldn't be sure if she was more upset to discover the gaping hole in her plan, or that she had risked potential disease, drinking in a pub that had a live goat on the premises, the sole cleaning apparatus a very well-used rag,  _ and all for nothing _ . Her previous determination wobbled when she watched Filch hammer the decree to the wall. A wobble that became a full shake of her previous resolve when Sirius Black appeared in the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room, his typically dour face breaking into a fiery grin when he told them what a great idea he thought Dumbledore's Army was. Hermione had frowned, Sirius was well known for his reckless impulsiveness, a portion of her summer cooped up with the restless animagus had made her see that. She felt horrible for thinking it, the man had been through so much, but if he thought it was a good idea,  _ maybe it wasn’t _ . After he finished enthusing about the progress they had made on lesson plans he rebuked her, for the meetings setting, employing a previously unheard condescending tone to his voice when he told her that ‘she had a lot to learn'. The remark stung. She was still a child, well, sixteen this year, thanks to the time turner, but she was used to being the responsible ‘almost adult’ in her little group. That she had got something wrong was bad enough, to have it pointed out in front of Harry and Ron was so much worse. The chastisement made her feel ashamed and vulnerable.

After the fire-call ended, Hermione couldn’t stop herself from verbalising her hesitancy to Harry. His close to the surface rage, and hero worship of his newly discovered godfather, set against her current thin-skinned sensitivity meant their row was immediate, cutting, and brief. When the final words were uttered, followed only by the slamming of doors Hermione sagged into the nearest armchair and worried her bottom lip. The goal of this year had been to get more friends, not to wind up with none.

* * *

The next day Hermione made her way to the Great Hall, determined to get breakfast even earlier than usual. She wasn't avoiding the boys, as such, she had simply decided that it was probably a good idea to give them a little space. An early meal meant little chance of seeing them, and she managed to convince a miserable Ginny to come down with her, so she wouldn't have to eat on her own. However the argument eventually played out, Hermione refused to shut herself off this year. Typically she would have hidden away, and thrown herself head first into other tasks; she didn't want to do that this year, and there was too much going on to risk exhaustion. So she weathered Ginny's complaints and scowls at the unreasonableness of the hour, and forced herself to act normally.

As Hermione finished pouring her tea they were joined at the table by Dean and Neville, both boys showing signs of weariness themselves. As they began a round of polite ‘good mornings’ Ginny perked up immeasurably, immediately engaging Dean in conversation. Hermione smiled to herself, leaving the two of them to their animated discussion and almost indecent longing glances, at least for this time of the morning, she turned her chair to speak to Neville. They chatted absently, while both stretched over the table to prepare their respective plates until Hermione remembered she had a couple of questions from their last Herbology lesson. She always got good marks in the subject, but it didn't come  _ naturally _ to her like did to Neville, she found she had to do quite a lot of reading around the subject following lessons to make sure that she understood  _ why  _ the answers were correct. Taking the opportunity, she fired off her queries at Neville in her typical direct fashion, while rooting around in her bag to find a quill and a scrap of parchment to make a note of any advice. Neville answered her patiently and thoroughly, and Hermione smiled. "Thank you, Neville that was really helpful." And it had been, their quick chat had saved her  _ a lot  _ more time in the library later, she reached for her jam covered toast, and a thought occurred to her. "Would you mind being my study partner for Herbology sometime? I don't have the knack for it like you, and I could do with some additional pointers."

Hermione could have been imagining it but as she took her first bite she became aware of a sudden hush at the table around them. Neville went very pink, a dull flush spreading across his cheeks until the twin stains met on the bridge of his nose. "Of course Hermione. That would be... I mean… Yes! Yes, I would like that," he stammered, his voice sounding a little strange to her ears.

Hermione looked at him mildly confused, but when he wouldn't make eye contact with her, she dropped it, thanking him again before making her excuses to leave the table so she could finish getting ready for first class, swiping a piece of toast to wolf down on the way back to the Tower. It wasn't unusual for her to sit at the breakfast table only to be too absorbed in work to eat. As soon as she moved Ginny grabbed her arm to stall her progress, her friend animatedly rushing her toast and gulping down tea, before standing and dragging Hermione down the row of seats ignoring her sharp protests. Once they were in the corridor, Ginny pounced, pushing Hermione against the wall and holding her in place with her hands at her shoulders. "Hermione Jean Granger, what? I repeat what! Was. That?!" Ginny asked, her tone one of startled awe.

Hermione didn't know how to respond; she wasn't sure what Ginny was talking about, maybe she had picked up on Neville being a bit off as well and wanted the gossip. She looked at Ginny blankly for a couple of seconds before unconsciously biting her lip and looking upwards trying to puzzle it out. Ginny's body sagged and she relaxed her grip, her arms dropping back to her sides. "You don't even know, do you?" Ginny demanded, backing away further and shaking her head.

"Know what?" Hermione pressed.

"Never mind," she huffed out exasperatedly before stalking off, muttering under her breath. Hermione thought she heard her say something about 'being bloody blind' but she couldn't be certain, after all, she had excellent eyesight.

* * *

That evening Hermione set herself up in the common room, building herself a workstation out of cushions and the ample books in her bag. She was diligently making a list of potential texts for the first DA meeting when Harry fell into the chair next to her, so engrossed in her itemised parchment that she didn't notice him until he waved his hand in front of her face. She shot a quick peek at him, trying to decipher his mood, having managed to get through the whole day without dwelling on their fight she didn’t want to have a repeat performance now. He didn't look angry; m _ aybe he had forgiven her for her for voicing her misgivings? _

"Sorry Harry, I was miles away," she said hesitantly, closing her book and laying the parchment on the coffee table.

"What were you thinking about?" he asked, eyes sweeping over the texts she had littered about herself.

"The DA," at his sharp look she quickly continued, "not about what I said before, and I am sorry about that. I know that it was my idea in the first place, but I cannot help wanting to be cautious. I don't want us to do  _ anything _ that will lead to you getting more detentions with Umbridge," she explained gently, and Harry looked slightly appeased. "Anyway, as I said, it wasn't about that. There may be a small issue I initially overlooked. Another one,” she admitted quietly. “I knew that you being the teacher would receive an enthusiastic response, but I didn't quite anticipate that there would be twenty-eight of us. With the new decree, an abandoned classroom isn’t going to be secure enough, I need a new location idea."

Harry nodded and sat back in the armchair seeming lost in thought for several seconds before jumping unexpectedly and clapping his hands in front of himself "I have an idea…  _ Dobby! _ " he called loudly. The enthusiastic elf appeared almost before Harry had finished calling for him, popping in the room with a loud crack, standing to look up at Harry, his wide glassy eyes full of admiration and expectation.

"Master called for Dobby?" He asked excitedly.

"Yes Dobby, err, thank you for coming,” Harry replied awkwardly. Having given up trying to dissuade the small creatures loyalty he was still struggling with some of the formalities. “I need some help finding an area in the castle for a... club to... practice. It needs to be big enough for twenty-eight people, and it is vital that this place is secure. We cannot have  _ anyone _ that is not a member of the club access the space; it's crucial that it remains secret. Do you think you can help?"

"Dobby knows of such a place," the little elf answered immediately, hopping from foot to foot struggling to control his eagerness. "Master Harry and Missy Hermy will follow me."

They followed Dobby to the seventh-floor corridor, barely able to keep up with him despite his small stature, until he stopped opposite a truly hideous tapestry depicting  _ Barnabus the Barmy _ . Hermione wondered, and not for the first time, if the person responsible for art procurement at Hogwarts wasn't as mental as Voldemort himself. Harry turned to Dobby, awaiting further instruction. "You walk back and forth in this spot three times, thinking about what you need," Dobby informed him, hands clasped behind his back giving the impression that the intelligence he had divulged was of grave importance.

Hermione looked between them both incredulously, but Harry just shrugged. "Can't hurt." She watched as Harry did exactly as instructed and gasped aloud as a door came into view.

Dobby smiled brightly as a door appeared, his grin filled with an almost uncontainable glee at their reaction. "Dobby must go back to the kitchens now, needs to keep an eye on Winky."

"Yes, thank you Dobby," Harry replied stiffly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The little elf bowed low enough for his nose to virtually touch the stone floor and disappeared again, with an equally loud crack.

Both she and Harry took a step forward to examine the new addition to the corridor. The conjured door appeared to be solid, and was easily three times her height, the dark wood covered in thick bolts and brass tacks. Temporarily stunned, they stood back to stare at it until Harry looked back at her for a second then, mind made up, he squared his shoulders and pushed it inwards.

At first, she couldn’t see anything, but after waiting for her eyes to adjust Hermione began to make out shapes. The room was vast and dark, with mirrored walls covering two sides of the space, there were target dummies all along one wall, and dozens of raised platforms that could be used for practice or presenting. A closer inspection revealed a mini reference library in one corner, filled with books on defensive and offensive magic that Hermione was sure she hadn't seen in the Hogwarts library. She mentally added reviewing it to her ever growing to do list and turned to inspect the instructional posters displayed on the far back wall. The signs depicted a broad range of useful instructions, from the correct posture for duelling, to the wand movements for charms, jinxes and defensive spells. The images on the slightly faded parchment shifted like wizarding photographs; the wand movements demonstrated in flashes of shimmering spell colour. Despite her five years in the wizarding world Hermione couldn't help but be slightly overcome by the incredible magic of the Room of Requirement.

"Wow," she breathed.

"Yeah, wow!" Answered Harry in an equally awed tone of voice, as he turned to face her, showing a face splitting grin. "Magic is awesome."

"Ha! Yes, it is!"

* * *

A week later Hermione once again found herself in the library. The date for the first  _ official _ meeting of the DA was set, and now they had a place to meet all that was left on her list was to organise a safe way of communicating. The DA had attracted members from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, making the problem slightly more complex. Had it been all Gryffindors they could have covertly spread the word in the common room. For the first meeting, they were letting the other members know as inconspicuously as possible, in the corridors between classes, but they couldn't do that for long. Hermione had been coming up blank for days then, the previous evening, Ron had sought her out, without Harry. When he had appeared, walking over to her seat almost reluctantly while looking over his shoulder, she felt a cascade of butterflies in her stomach. It was a situation she had imagined  _ many _ times before, and for a single moment, she wondered if he was going to make some kind of declaration. Almost as soon as the thought bubbled up she squashed it into a tiny ball, vowing not to read anymore Jane Austen for the rest of the year. The idea of someone like Ron, who only last year had opted for 'you're a girl aren't you', as a prelude to asking her to go to a ball with him, as a last resort, making an avowal of any kind was ridiculous. In fact what he  _ wanted  _ to talk about was Harry.  _ It’s what we always talk about _ , Hermione reminded herself sharply. He confessed that their friend was still having nightmares, despite Harry’s repeated assurances to Hermione that they had disappeared. When confronted he had apparently insisted that he could handle it, though they had been becoming more frequent, this week occurring almost every night. Ron apparently felt ill at ease telling her but had pushed aside the consequences of his ‘betrayal’ down to worry.

Hermione managed to corner Harry by the fireplace and hour later. As gently as it was possible for her to do so, she asked him about how he was sleeping. He was reluctant, but she was nothing if not persuasive or at least persistent, and he eventually talked through some of them. Long dark corridors with softly glowing orbs featured heavily. His other visions were less abstract and more painful, night after night he was forced to relive the last task of the Triwizard Tournament, the night that Cedric had died. They had spoken about it before of course, but never in such detail and never with so much emotion from Harry. Hermione figured he was just  _ so tired _ he couldn't hold it in as well as he normally did. She worried about what would happen when all of those repressed emotions started to surface.

It was only later when she was reflecting back on his words that she remembered how he had witnessed Voldemort summoning his Death Eaters. There was something in that. A summons would be a very effective way of getting everyone together. Though she was pretty sure branding the DA members might be a bridge too far, if a jinxed parchment could give her a morality crisis then a tattoo was unconscionable. Also, a summons was designed to call the person immediately, and she needed to create something that would send a message, not convey a command. After aligning her search to look at replication she hit upon the Protean charm, it was above her skill level, but that was nothing new. Checking her calendar, she realised that with a few late nights she would have just enough time to test a prototype before making them.

_ Revolutionary underground communication, tick. _

* * *

Hermione watched with a warm knowing smile as the students entered the Room of Requirement, their faces reflecting the same admiration and wonder that herself and Harry had shared on her first visit. After a quick introduction, Harry got them to pair off to practice disarming each other. Despite his earlier reluctance, he hit his stride quickly, and even a few nasty comments on the ‘basic level’ of the syllabus didn't get a rise out of him. Hermione hoped this would be good for him, giving him an outlet for his rage and even more subtly slowly get him to understand that the fight wasn't his alone. They were all in this together, she suspected herself and Ron, if not everyone in the room, were in it to the bitter end.

After an hour and a half of being knocked on the floor by various jinxes and one particularly well-timed hex, Hermione was bone tired, and the rest of the room looked similarly peaked. Even with the knowledge that walking up the stairs tomorrow would be hard for her aching body, she still felt completely exhilarated. They were _ finally learning _ after weeks of pointless classes, they were preparing themselves for what loomed outside the castle walls, and they were infuriating Umbridge while doing it.

Looking around at the weary faces Harry called time and gathered everyone together. He praised the entire group for their efforts, even after only one session he already sounded so natural in the role of leader. He held up a Galleon and explained the charm Hermione had applied. It had seemed like a good object to use, though the Galleons were fake it would be very hard to determine that without close inspection, and they would be a relatively innocuous item for a member to have on their person if they were ever searched. Harry explained how he would send a message with the time of the next meeting, which would then be displayed on the coin face. When a new message had been sent the coin would grow warm to alert them.

"Protean Charm? But that's... that's N.E.W.T. standard, that is." Hermione heard Terry Boot say, and blushed fiercely at the compliment. Harry gave the command to leave in pairs, hoping the staggered departure would alleviate suspicion, and Hermione moved to find a partner when Terry stopped in front of her, blocking her path. "Would you like to partner with me Granger?" he gestured towards the members lining up by the door. "I wouldn't mind picking your brain on that Protean Charm. Very impressive work, not to mention the ingenuity required to have come up with it in the first place," he smiled at her, his eager words delivered earnestly.

Hermione could feel, to her horror, that she was turning an even darker pink. "Err thank you, Terry, it was nothing really," she stuttered out, her hands clutching awkwardly at the end of her sleeves. "I think Harry said something about travelling back with people from our own house, so that we can go the whole way to our common rooms together," she responded, slightly reluctantly. It wasn't often someone took an active interest in her academic pursuits.

The sentence was barely out of her mouth before Neville appeared, "Good idea Hermione, you can come with me, we best be off," he rushed out, turning them both around to face the door. "Boot, maybe you could walk back Luna yeah? See you next time," he called over his shoulder and with that she was bustled out of the doorway before she could manage a backwards glance.

* * *

The term went on, classes continued, and the DA met several more times. The weather began to get colder, and preparations were being made for the Christmas holidays. Hermione had been invited to stay at Grimmauld Place and had eventually accepted. Her parents would understand, she told herself, Harry was more important now. In any case, they had planned a skiing trip in France which would have been no fun for her, given her complete lack of coordination. Their destination choice made her feel better and worse all at once. She had never liked skiing, and they knew that, they weren't the kind of parents to subject her to an activity because _ they _ enjoyed it, which meant they had already banked on her making other plans. Hermione made her excuses, and promised to holiday with them over the summer, intimating that somewhere warm would be nice, hopefully conveying that she would  _ make time _ for them then.

Two days before the Christmas break Hermione woke slightly later than normal, she had been burning the candle at both ends, trying to cram everything in, and now that classes were finished she was hoping to be able to catch up on some rest. She rushed herself getting ready and made it to the common room not twenty minutes later.

After waiting for nearly half an hour she had seen no sign of Harry, Ron or even Ginny. At length, Seamus came down the stairs and told her the boys weren't in their dorm.  _ Maybe they had just assumed she had already gone down? _ It was unlike her to be late after all. But whatever rationale she considered, nothing removed the gut feeling that something was wrong, a feeling that was confirmed moments later when she walked into the Great Hall and was headed off by Professor McGonagall.

"Mr Weasley has been attacked," Professor McGonagall stated without preamble, once the door to her office had been closed and warded. "It was during the course of his work for the Order, which I will not be giving you any details about," she said sternly after Hermione's mouth had opened in question.

Her professor outlined what they knew about the attack, which wasn't much, but from the scant details they did have, it was impressed upon her just how serious Mr Weasley's condition was. Hermione felt sick to her stomach; she had always felt a strong affection for the Weasley patriarch. Despite his rigorous questioning on the Muggle world, he had treated her beyond kindly from their first introduction. After assuring Professor McGonagall, more than once, that she would keep all of this information entirely secret, she was told she could go.

As Hermione left the office she glanced at her watch; there were still thirty minutes left of breakfast, she knew she should try to eat something, though her stomach rolled in protest at the thought. Pushing discomfort aside she resolved to make an appearance; it was going to look suspicious enough that Ron and Harry weren't there, without her being missing as well.

Hermione found herself sitting at the house table minutes later without really being sure how she got there. The toast she was forcing down tasted like ash, but she kept taking sips of the tea to wash it down.  _ What did it mean that Harry had that dream? What did it mean that he had seen it happen? _

Later, once she had calmed down, she went up to the Astronomy Tower to hide and to think. Looking out of the window over the grounds she realised that she hadn't been asked to go.  _ I'm not a Weasley and not even an honorary one like Harry _ , she reasoned with herself. Being left behind stung a little, though it hadn't been done deliberately, yet, in a way that made it worse. If it had been maliciously done, then they would have at least  _ thought _ about her, and decided not to bring her, that it had been done unconsciously meant they hadn't even thought of her. She felt a surge of self-loathing to be having such thoughts at such a time. She was being over sensitive, selfish even. But her mind wouldn't stop churning over it, no matter how destructive the train of thought was. She couldn’t help but consider how it might feel to be part of a family,  _ a magical family _ , where she wasn't just one of the number but someone that held a definite place, a defined role within the group.

For now, Hermione resolved to keep away from her housemates in case she would have to answer too many questions about the boy's whereabouts. Then maybe finish her holiday assignments before leaving the castle. That way she could make the best use of the library and be of the most help to Molly when she got to Grimmauld Place. She had been looking forward to the break, but now she would have some extra time on her own, she supposed she could do some more work on her Patronus. Hermione would never say it out loud, but she was a little put out that she couldn't produce one yet. She had managed a lacklustre mist, but it never took corporeal form, not even close. She wanted to be able to do it so badly, partly because it was exactly the sort of beautiful magic that she dreamed of when finding out she was a witch, and she was very curious about what her animal form would be.  _ That, and you don't like Harry being able to do something you can't,  _ her mind whispered. Hermione sighed, sagging against the stone wall of the Tower,  _ that too _ .

* * *

Hermione’s departure day came around slowly, and when it finally arrived she woke bright and early. After wolfing down a quick breakfast, she was heading back towards Gryffindor Tower to pack the last of her trunk. She had been given special permission to use the floo in Professor McGonagall's office and wanted to ensure she was out of the castle long before Umbridge realised that she was not planning to use the Express. Hermione had managed to avoid the toad-like harridan entirely for the last two days, and she had no intention of being caught now. While rushing up the stairwell, she spied Luna moving in the opposite direction, like Hermione she was not in her uniform and was instead wearing a flamingo pink wrap dress with what appeared to be a necklace made out of radishes. "Hermione, I'm glad to see you, are you heading off too?" she inquired lightly.

"Yes, but I won't be on the Express, going via the floo," Hermione returned in a half whisper, her eyes scanning to make sure the corridor was as empty. She had no idea why she told Luna.

"Oh I know,” Luna replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Do say hello to Harry, Ron and Ginny for me, I hope Mr Weasley is feeling better."

Hermione, alarmingly, felt almost no desire to ask Luna how she knew where she was going, or even about Mr Weasley. The girl could not have heard it from anyone in the castle, the Order had been too careful for that. She realised with the start that despite her reliance on logic and reason it appeared that she had accepted, on a level she wasn't even consciously aware of, that sometimes 'Luna just knew things'.

"I will, what are you doing for your holiday?" Hermione asked, changing the subject.

"Daddy and I are spending Christmas reviewing his compiled research on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, we are hoping to narrow down the possible countries that would support a fully-fledged colony," Luna grinned.

Hermione tried to formulate a response that wasn't 'that sounds barmy,' "Lovely... Are they...  _ very _ hard to find?" She asked politely, trying her best to push down the snort.

"Oh yes, if Daddy and I were to find proof of their existence it would make us quite famous, not that we would want to see them for that reason of course, but we feel our readers would be very interested," Luna explained earnestly.

"Then I wish you the best of luck in your research." Hermione might have thought what they were doing was complete gobbledegook but a Christmas of elective study sounded pretty great, maybe Luna wasn’t quite as different as she thought. "I best go, I don't want to keep Professor McGonagall waiting."

"Just a second," Luna requested before reaching into her school bag and producing a small flat object wrapped in completely un-festive lurid yellow paper, tied with an elaborate purple bow. "Merry Christmas!" she declared brightly.

Hermione looked up at Luna's smiling face and back down to the proffered present and back up at her face again. She could feel her cheeks begin to heat. "Err, Luna… I'm so sorry I didn't know we were doing presents, I mean, I normally only by for the boys... I really-"

"Hermione," Luna interjected cutting off her babbling, "It's just a present," and with that she shoved it into Hermione's hand. Despite feeling terrible Hermione managed to thank her and wish her a Merry Christmas in return. Luna smiled, giving Hermione one of those looks that made her fidget then turned swiftly, skipping down the rest of the corridor.

* * *

Christmas at Grimmauld Place was a surprisingly lively affair, despite Mr Weasley being in the hospital, all of those in attendance went to great efforts to ensure everyone had the best possible holiday. Mr Weasley was released in time to join in with the Christmas day festivities and despite obviously being in some degree of pain, was clearly very glad to be out of the hospital and surrounded by his family.

Sirius, clearly overjoyed at having guests to distract him from his housebound state, went about the place with firewhisky in hand singing Christmas carols, loudly and way off key. He had even managed, after spending some time with him, to elevate Harry of some of the guilt he had been carrying about the attack. Hermione was very grateful. Harry listened to his godfather even more diligently than he would to Ron, and so when she handed her gift over to Sirius Christmas morning, she felt more at peace with the fact that she had brought him something, even though after his chastisement earlier in the year she had to resist the urge to wrap coal.

As Christmas day drew to a close, a very full, very weary Hermione said her goodnights and made to head upstairs to the room she shared with Ginny. Collapsing onto her bed fully clothed she disturbed the pile of open gifts at the end of her bed, and sighing she sat up so she could stack them on the floor. She had quite a haul this year, with a present from everyone in attendance barring Fred and George who had cornered her that morning.

_ "Well done on those fake Galleons Granger," Fred began. _

_ "An exemplary bit of magic that was," George chimed in nodding his head at his Twin. _

_ "So good in fact that it's prompted us to raise our game." _

_ "Should I even ask?" Hermione questioned, trying and failing to hold back her laughter. _

_ "Absolutely not," Fred replied suppressing his own but not the broad grin, mirrored on his brother’s face. _

_ "There is nothing better than a surprise Granger." _

_ "We will have your Christmas present waiting for you back at the castle." _

_ "So Merry Christmas," they sing-singed together, and Hermione felt slightly nervous about what could be in store. _

While tidying, she came across her gift from Luna, a framed picture of the two of them sitting together, smiling and laughing in the central courtyard. The picture had been taken by Colin Creevy during the last term, and you could just make out the shape of their bodies due to the bundles of clothes they were wrapped in, their dark coats standing out in front of the frosty landscape. The frame was a simple, classic, silver band which shone with a high sheen. Hermione loved everything about it.

* * *

Hermione felt reasonably content. She, Harry and Ron had returned to Hogwarts rejuvenated following the Christmas break. The DA was organised, everyone was contactable, Umbridge was being kept at arm's length, and she had even followed her mum’s advice and was trying to spend more time with girlfriends.

The talk in the common room had once again become very sports focused, but rather than lose her temper Hermione resolved to find Luna and post a letter to her parents containing her regular heavily edited version of events. For once it wasn't because she had  _ wanted _ to omit what was happening, the Order had warned them over Christmas that it was highly likely that Umbridge was now checking their post, so it was better to be safe than sorry.

She found Luna upon entering the owlery, engaged in what appeared to be a fairly animated, albeit one-sided, conversation with a huge eagle owl. "Sorry to err...interrupt?" she began briefly wondering what the Hermione of a year ago would have made of her apologising for interrupting a conversation with an owl.  "This is for you," she walked over to where Luna was standing and handed her a small red box with a tiny gold bow attached to the lid.

Over Christmas, she had agonised over what to get her friend and then came to the conclusion that the girl who gave her a picture of the two of them laughing together would appreciate a present that reflected heartfelt sentiment, rather than material value. After a lot of careful deliberation Hermione had made her a bracelet, it featured a simple, delicate silver chain, braided with narrow ribbons of ice blue and pale green, with a small moon charm added to the clasp. "Sorry again about before, I liked my Christmas present, it's on my bedside table in the dorm.” Hermione watched as Luna opened the little box with almost reverential care and peered inside. "It's what Muggles call a ‘friendship bracelet’, or at least, that was the idea behind it. Typically they are made with bits of thread, but I thought this would be sturdier," Hermione explained. Luna made no response to either the package or Hermione’s words; she didn't even lift her eyes. Hermione felt very exposed by the silence, she struggled a lot with this sort of thing, this is why boys as friends were so easy, there was no subtext, you didn't have to worry they didn't like a gift. She felt herself begin to ramble against her will, "I made one for Ginny too, but hers has different colours, I thought the blue would be good because of Ravenclaw, and your colouring, and I know it's a bit twee and maybe-"

"It's beautiful Hermione," Luna said, cutting her off, her voice sounding slight. She placed the bracelet on her slim wrist and charmed it closed, her too blue eyes looked glassy, but she was smiling. "Nobody has made me anything like this… not since… not since my Mum."

Hermione swallowed, she knew Luna had lost her mother while she was very young in a spell accident. She was suddenly desperate to turn the conversation onto a less emotional topic. "I'm glad you like it. Let's go down to the kitchens and get some hot chocolate, it's cold up here, and I can't get anything from the elves on my own," she linked her arm through Luna's, turning her head when the younger girl sniffed, and the girls descended the stairs together.

* * *

Hermione was on her way to the library the following day, the quickest route from the still elaborately decorated Great Hall taking her past Umbridge's office. Noticing a cluster of motionless students in front of her she huffed in annoyance and shoved her way to the front to see the obstruction. Looking down Hermione blinked twice to clear her vision, in the middle of the corridor, blocking the path and the door to Umbridge's office altogether, was a vast swamp, complete with gloopy, sludge brown water, a wide array of aquatic vegetation and if she wasn't mistaken she could hear bullfrogs. Thoroughly confused, she turned to go in the other direction, she did need to get to the library, and she did not want to be here when the toad…  _ the toad HA! _ Got back. She allowed herself a smile before turning to leave when a glimmer caught her eye.

In the far corner of the swamp, obscured slightly by some leaves, was a tiny, shiny bow, in a festive bright green. Totally puzzled she stared at it, head tilted to the side for several seconds, she looked around at the group of students, but nobody else seemed to have noticed it, moving towards the swamp once more she watched, inexplicably transfixed, as the tiny bow sank slowly into the bog.

Later that evening when she got back to the common room she had forgotten about her diversion earlier in the day, the bizarre sight drawn from her mind by hours of advanced Arithmancy. Making to go straight up the stairs she paused when she noticed a new poster on the pin board.

**WOW YOUR FRIENDS, DAZZLE YOUR FAMILY, MAKE YOUR ENEMIES GREEN WITH ENVY!**

_ Weasley Wizard Wheezes presents its newest innovation: _

**The Portable Swamp**

_ One tiny box, when activated by the charm within, will create a life-size, realistic mud filled swamp. _

_ Upgraded to include sound* _

_ If you have a hankering to see this product in action we are reliably informed that you should head to the 4th floor. _

_ Order now to avoid disappointment. _

_ *no actual bullfrogs are used in this product. _

Hermione smiled,  _ Merry Christmas indeed. _


	3. Chapter 3

Antonin Dolohov was lying rigidly, flat on the permanently damp cot at the far side of the cell. His body was completely straight, his eyes staring at the outside wall, imagining there was a window. Not that it would have made much difference, stone grey wall or characterless grey vista. He focused his mind on work through his exercises.  _ My name is Antonin Alexei Dolohov; I was born in Sochi in 1956, I moved to Britain in 1961, I was put here in 1982. My name is Antonin Alexi Dolohov… _

He did what he could to keep his mind active, and given his lack of resources, the task was not an easy one. The absence of a window made it more problematic; he couldn't determine the duration of days without the passing of light, making it nearly impossible to set a routine that would save his mind and body. Antonin often wondered if that had been an intentional design component of the cursed rock, or perhaps purely a happy coincidence. He flexed his fingers, not moving his gaze from the offending wall. The world around him was quiet, not silent;  _ it was never silent _ . Though he had largely managed to block out most of the cries over the years, whether they were coloured by anguish, madness, fury or even death.  _ It was years now, wasn't it? _ Being able to impede the noise from the other inmates had been his first project when he was put in the cell. If he was to die there, he didn't want some unknown wretch’s mania to be the soundtrack.

Seconds, minutes or maybe even hours later, Antonin thought he heard a noise.  _ A new noise _ . New noises were hard to come by, and he strained to hold on to the sound long enough to identify it. To his  _ immense _ frustration, the perplexing vibration slipped through his mind like water, and he blinked, cursing his deterioration before resuming his staring at the imaginary window. A while later he heard a noise again.  _ The same noise _ . It was louder,  _ closer?  _ It was a bang, a  _ loud _ bang; it sounded like? Antonin tried hard to think, squeezing his eyes shut, in an attempt to force himself from his mental lethargy. It was something banging against stone,  _ like an explosion?! _ He fought the urge to jump up and investigate further, there was little he could ascertain from the cell,  _ and you don't want to hope, _ the voices taunted. After debating it in silence, Antonin allowed his head to rise from the cot, but he would go no further.

After the first two crashes had broken Antonin was conscious there were more. The sound like popcorn cooking, the pops and the roars started off few and far between and then suddenly seemed practically constant.

Indecision over, Antonin moved and slumped against the door to the cell. Pulling up his knees to his chest and dropping his head onto them, his fingers scraping harshly against his scalp. It wasn't long before another of his senses was assaulted. He could smell smoke,  _ was this happening? _ Or was this just his psyche finally submitting to cold, deprivation and futility? His desperate tugging at the roots of his hair was paused by a loud crash, the loudest one he had heard yet. Antonin removed his head from its resting place on his knees and looked up. His vision was completely blurred. Smoke filled the tiny cell, grey clouds billowing up in every direction. He shivered, suddenly aware of a drop in temperature, that before that moment he would not have thought possible. Antonin tried to focus, but his senses were too jumbled. He closed his eyes and reopened them, but it made no difference to the scene in front of him. He moved away from the chaos until his back was pressed against a wall, where he sat, perfectly still, and started repeating his exercises again to calm himself;  _ I am Antonin... _

When, finally, there had been several minutes of uninterrupted silence, Antonin risked raising his head again. The smoke had started to clear and there, on the outside wall, was a considerable hole, blown into the brickwork. Antonin unconsciously walked towards it, briefly he considered the possibility that he’d had a burst of accidental magic, for the first time in over thirty years, reasoning it could have been an involuntary surge, acting on his forceful desire to  _ have _ a window. He scoffed derisively at his delusion; his magic would barely be strong enough to cast a lumos at present, accidental or not. As he was lost in thought, regarding the wall carefully, another sudden blast rung through the cell. Antonin instinctively scrambled back towards the door, away from the harsh sound. When the smog lifted this time, the hole was much bigger. In fact, ‘hole’ was no longer the right word, almost half the cell wall was gone. He ventured forward, tentatively, fearing another explosion, with every step he could feel more of the wind and rain that was attacking the cursed island, lash against his form, his meagre Azkaban robes doing nothing to shield him from the savagery of the elements. Antonin didn't mind; every step made him more confident that he was not insane, more sure that this  _ was _ happening.

Falteringly, Antonin pushed one arm through what was now the side of the building; the wind was so strong it pressed against his arm, making it difficult for him to hold out straight. As the rainwater coated his hand he snapped the limb back intuitively, as if it were flames that licked his skin. Antonin held his hand in front of his face and watched,  _ mesmerised, _ as water rolled down his grime covered fingers. He advanced further, out onto one the stone ledges that wrapped around the prison and raised his head to the heavens. That was when he saw it, the green spectral skull with a cruel serpent twisting into its mouth. He could taste freedom for the first time in...  _ No idea? _

Antonin looked back across the water and his eyes crinkled as his lips tugged into a very faint smile.

* * *

One minute Antonin was staring across the abyss of the North Sea, and the next he was standing on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. He would have been hard-pressed to indicate which was a more depressing site. After being side-along apparated to the ornate gates in the dead of night, he was met by a scrawny wizard he didn't recognise and led down the ridiculously long driveway into the manor itself. The other wizard did not try to speak to him, Antonin was sure that even after all this time, his reputation as a man that did not  _ appreciate _ small talk had preceded him. Once inside he was directed to a room, and opening the door the wizard spoke for the first time. "This will be your suite for the duration of your stay, clothes have been provided, and the elves will be bringing up food shortly," he hurried out, without making eye contact, his hasty steps giving away some of his discomfort.

Antonin moved into the room cautiously, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of space around him. Although he was sure the room was modest by Malfoy standards, the intense green of the walls and the crisp white of the bed sheets was staggering. He felt like he was going into sensory overload.  _ Slow and steady _ . He breathed in deeply through his nose and willed himself to concentrate on one decision at a time. Antonin opted to move into the bathroom, and once inside the soft sea foam walls, that were reflected in the pristine white suite he was even more aware of his filthy state.

An ornate mirror hung above the sink, on the other side of the room, but for dozens of reasons, he did his best to avoid it at all costs. Instead, he reached into the shower to turn it on, letting it heat up while he removed his clothes, he had no desire to feel cold water  _ ever again _ . Antonin stripped the thin robes from his form, so old and tarnished they were virtually disintegrating, and after waiting a little longer,  _ just to be sure _ , he stepped into the confines of the shower, feeling instantly more comfortable with the closeness of the walls and stood forward to allow the jets to hit his body.

It took a while of standing under the cascade before the muck on his body started to shift, the grime having formed determined layers through years of neglect. Minutes later the water was still running brown, but Antonin was able to get a clearer view of his body. He dropped his hands to his stomach and hips and pinched questioningly, he was slimmer than he should have been and his muscle mass was low. Not that he had ever been a big man, he was tall, standing around 6' 2'', and he had a rapid metabolism, so food burnt off quickly, something that hadn't helped him survive while in Azkaban. There had not been a lot of food, and what there had been was of poor nutritional quality.

Antonin continued to run his hand over his body, twisting himself appraisingly. His limbs all seemed ok. Raising his hands to his face he could feel his beard was full, considering he needed to shave daily when he was going without it, he wasn't surprised. His hair had been charmed when he entered Azkaban, not to stop it growing entirely, but the spell suppressed its growth, not letting it fall below his shoulders. He had thought it was a strange care to take when he was 'processed', but after a long time staring at the walls with nothing else to think on Antonin speculated it was so it wouldn't grow long enough to enable a person to strangle themselves with.

Body inspection over he knew he had to do the same for his mind. Understanding his environment was imperative for survival, now, more so than ever, and that started by having a full comprehension of his own mental wellbeing, or lack thereof. Antonin leant forward, pushing his hands against the water warmed tiles, and splaying his fingers, fixating on the jets blasting into his overgrown hair. He hadn't tried reaching into his mind the entire time he was in the cell. Not having wanted to find anything missing, or to face the possible reality of losing his sanity. Antonin ran through exercises he had learnt when he began Occlumency training, consulting stored memories and his recollections of people and events. He didn't find anything that would give him pause, he still felt balanced, but the real test would be when he had to function.

After over an hour of nonstop scrubbing, Antonin removed himself from the shower, and finally faced the mirror, to be met with a face that was horribly altered. Antonin couldn't tell if it was the ravages of time, his incarceration, or both, that had affected his skin so harshly. He found everything he needed for shaving on the side of the sink and swiftly removed his beard entirely. It was unusual for him, typically preferring to leave a light smattering of hair, similar to two days growth lining his face, but to be able to feel his skin at that moment was like an unimaginable luxury. He chanced another look in the mirror, and there was a little improvement, but his hair was a mess, falling in dark waves down to his shoulders, emphasising the pallor of his skin and his sunken face.

Sick of his reflection he moved into the bedroom, heading to the wardrobe in his towel. He found a set of simple black robes and forced his fingers to remember the movements required to do up a shirt. He noticed that the robes were a size smaller than he would have brought, but they still hung loosely off his frame. Yet even lax the clothes felt  _ too _ close, after years of only being attired in the slim rags of the prison. Antonin was beginning to grow frustrated with himself;  _ they were just clothes _ , he couldn’t believe he was so bloody sensitive. He walked over to the dresser towards a familiar looking box lying on the surface, opening it he smiled instinctively. Inside the ornately carved, dark wooden box was a wand, but not just any wand,  _ his wand _ . His hand reached to grab it, and immediately his magic thrummed under the surface of his skin in response. Antonin had no idea how this was here, innocuously lying on the gold silk inlay of the box he had been gifted by his grandfather before they moved to England. Antonin had thought it would have been snapped after his arrest. Another question to add to his ever growing list.

A knock at the door made Antonin freeze before shaking it off, palming his newly returned weapon. He opened the door carefully to be greeted by a tall witch, with soft red hair that was tied away from her face in a loose pony. Her light green robes hung almost as loose as his own did, obscuring her body entirely. She was stunning, he observed blankly, scanning her alabaster skin, with a smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks, he tried to remember the last time he was in a room,  _ a bedroom _ , alone with a pretty witch. "I'm here perform any hair charms you might require," she stated dully, her eyes staring straight ahead.  Antonin regarded her carefully, he wasn’t that happy with the idea of a stranger pointing a wand at his head, but eventually, he obliged, opening the door wider in silent invitation and she directed him to sit down in a chair in the centre of the room.

He expected questions but she was wordless, so he watched her cautiously, from the corner of his eye, wand clutched firmly in his hand. She waved her wand three or four times, and Antonin felt his head get lighter. "All done," she finished in the same blank tone before conjuring a mirror and holding it up before him. It was the way he normally had his hair it cut, keeping it relatively long, stopping around the bottom of his ears, the natural waves always made it look silly short,  _ but how had she known?  _ Antonin looked at her askance. "They provided us photos from before," she explained, before aiming several cleaning charms at the carpet and then at his robes. He thought about asking her another question but then he noticed a familiar glint in her eye, she had been imperiused, suddenly the whole encounter made a lot more sense. It explained her ease at being in the room with an infamous Death Eater and her muted state.

Once the cursed witch left, Antonin sank into a comfortable looking chair in the corner of the room and attempted to adjust to the feeling of seat cushioning. Simple food had been laid out on an adjacent table, and he knew he should try to eat something. What he really wanted was to get in the bed, the straightforward act of having a shower had left him completely depleted. But he couldn't give into lethargy, not yet, he needed to find out what was going on. He resolved to let himself have ten minutes in the chair before he would go in search of answers. Just as he let his head rest back, the door began to open. Only this time Antonin didn't jump or palm his wand. There were very few people that would walk into his room without at least knocking, most would wait for express permission. With both of his parents dead, and the Dark Lord being an unlikely visitor he was not at all surprised when he saw Reuben Yaxley taking up the open door frame. "Something you need Yax?" Antonin rasped out; he didn't recognise his voice, which was unsurprising, as he couldn't remember the last time he had used it.

"Oh, how I have missed you, the King of the understatement," Reuben drawled, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. Antonin managed a faint smirk and waved his hand in front of the chair next to his in unnecessary invitation. Yaxley walked up to him and placed one of his large hands on either side of Antonin's face. "It's good to see you brother," he said, his voice holding a sincerity that the man used very rarely.

Antonin put his hands on Yaxley's shoulders in turn. "It's good to see you too.” Yaxley had been right; he was downplaying it, it was more than good to see him, in many ways it was positively miraculous.

Yaxley dropped from his great height into the offered chair, a momentary spasm flittering across his face displaying his own issues with comfort. "Well, let me be the first to say you look like shit" he laughed out.

"You to Yax, you too," Antonin replied dryly.

It wasn't true, though, well, at least not in Yaxley's case. His friend looked aged, and a little too thin but he was still an attractive man. He'd obviously already had a visit from the cursed witch, as his hair was tidy, though it was long, longer than Antonin’s, and darker, almost black in shade. His face was pale but that was fairly typical for him. He stood slightly taller than Antonin and was more broad, a physical difference that had existed since they were young.

"How long before we don't look so," Yaxley questioned, looking for the right expression.

"Hollow?" Antonin supplied, the memory of his reflection taunting him slightly.

"Yeah, I suppose, that's a good a word as any."

"I have no idea, hopefully in a couple of weeks we will look more human." Antonin hesitated before asking, "How long?"

Yaxley turned to meet his eyes, his hands gripping the arms of the chair reflexively. "Fourteen years," he breathed out. His declaration was met with silence. Antonin tried to ascertain how that number stacked against his expectations. He had no answer to give himself right now.

"I saw Travers on the way in; he had a bit of information. Said I would pass it on, I think he's still nervous around you after that failed kidnapping in Hogsmeade the year after we were marked," Yaxley said, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Antonin scoffed in response. Travers was no more afraid of him than Reuben was, he was, however, exceedingly wary, but that was what came when you broke a man's arm. It was a mild punishment compared to what Antonin had received for the oversight in the mission he had been leading. It had been the first time he was ever disciplined by their Lord, and it was not an experience he was ever likely to forget.

Yaxley dropped his head to the side, eyeing Antonin critically. "Are you mad? I suppose one of us should bring that to the table. That's the real question, isn't it? I'm not, at least, I don't think I am. I'm diminished but still... mainly whole." His voice was unusually anxious, though Antonin considered it would be awhile before any of them would seem like their usual selves, if they ever would.

"I'm not sure,” he answered honestly, with the only person he could do so with. “I don't think so, and right now I'm just tired," his friend nodded. "So," Antonin continued, "what now?"

"We are to attend briefings for the next couple of days, the information we have missed, etc. The first full meeting with the Dark Lord will be in a week," Yaxley replied, absently picking at some of the food Antonin had left on the side.

"That's something then; I don't think I'm fit to kneel yet. How long do we have to stay in this shithole?" he groused.

Yaxley beamed, the expression looking twisted on his sunken face, "Don't let the  _ Lord of the Manor _ hear you talking like that Antonin."

They laughed together and attempted eating, working out who was still around and what the next few days would look like, it was too soon to think any further than that. It wasn't long before Yaxley returned to his room and Antonin gave in to his mounting exhaustion and climbed into bed. He slipped into his first dreamless sleep for over fourteen years, even before his head had come to rest on the overstuffed pillow.

* * *

By specific instruction  _ all _ of the trio were in the Great Hall for breakfast, Hermione had started to crack the whip on exam prep, and she had decreed that today they were spending time in the library. She had scarcely sat down when the post started flying in, and her copy of The Daily Prophet landed haphazardly in front of her, knocking over Ron's pumpkin juice. She paid the bird, ending its intense stare off with her outraged friend, and moved to push the rolled up parchment to the side, but before she could do so the stillness of the room permeated her sleepy mind, and she whipped her head around regarding the quiet murmurings from the house tables. The last time Hermione had felt the atmosphere shift like that was during the fourth year when the whole hall had been pouring over details of her  _ imaginary _ love life. She swallowed back her mounting anxiety and unfurled the paper, by this time Harry and Ron had become aware of the tension in the air beyond them and watched her carefully. Pushing the front page flat Hermione gasped, the entire sheet was dedicated to news that ten of Voldemort's most faithful Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban, as she glanced down the page a frisson of fear ran down her spine. The story showed bios on each of the Death Eaters, details on the crimes they were imprisoned for, as well as pictures of them taken at the time of their arrests. A picture of Rabastan Lestrange stood out first, his light blue eyes blown wide as he scowled out of the frame. He was fighting against the Aurors holding him, bearing his teeth like a cornered animal. She saw a resemblance to the one taken of Sirius when he was captured, though this did not look like a man protesting his innocence, the look on Rabastan's face did not speak of desperation, but sneering superiority.

Hermione read sections of the article aloud, very quietly, to the boys, and they listened, sitting forward with rapt attention. She flicked her eyes over to the moving picture of Reuben Yaxley, his broad shoulders and dark eyes giving him an intense look, when offset with his unaffected smirk, and slightly raised right eyebrow, the effect was quite unsettling.

"This must be it, the Ministry have to admit _ he's _ back now," Harry exclaimed, and Hermione suppressed a wince at the level of desperation in his tone.

"It would appear," she paused, bracing herself, "that the Ministry have suggested that Sirius is responsible for the breakout, their rationale being that no one had broken out before, so it must be him," she said anxiously.

"But Barty Crouch Jr. broke out too, so it's not just him!" Harry shouted back, enraged.

"I know Harry, but he was assisted by a Ministry official, they were hardly going to print that in the paper." She tried to reason with him, and it wasn't as if she didn't have her own issues with morality and justice, but Harry’s inability to see the greys of their world frustrated her at times. He should know by now that the press and the government would never do anything to incriminate themselves, and while one belonged in the other’s pocket, that protection worked both ways.

Harry stood abruptly, shaking the table in his haste, and marched out of the hall without saying another word. Ron made to stand, but Hermione placed her hand on his forearm. "Not yet," she requested softly, he looked back down at her before slumping back into his seat. "I think he needs a minute to work it through in his head. This whole year has been like screaming in the wind for him. No matter how logical his argument, people still think he's mad or saying these things for attention, and now Voldemort is growing bolder, it's not going to be long before people, a lot of people, start getting hurt. You would think following the events of last night, that the Ministry would admit defeat, but no, ten Death Eaters break out of Azkaban, and they blame Sirius, the only family that Harry has left in the world. There is nothing that we can say that will make it better. Let him go, run, yell, do something to work it off."

Ron was silent as he processed her words, absently picking through the remains of his breakfast until, eventually, he turned to face her again. "I might go get some flying time in, not long until try-outs," Hermione ignored the obviously lie, Ron could never hide his emotions well. None of them could, and he looked afraid. But she let him go, like Harry he wouldn't want to dissect his feelings just now.

Surrounded by empty seats, Hermione turned back to look at the article, but a crunching noise caught her attention. Neville was sat at the table, just to her right, the food in front of him remained untouched as he held his eyes tightly closed, teeth clenched, compressing the article into a smaller and smaller ball in his palm. She abandoned her breakfast and walked to the other side of the table, laying a hand gently on his shoulder, he made no reaction. "Neville," she said, dropping her voice into what she hoped was a soothing tone. There was still no outward sign that he had even heard her. "Neville," she tried again, this time squeezing his arm. His face didn't react, but she heard the faint trace of his breath hitching.

He opened his eyes slowly and turned to regard her, his face completely shuttered, his expression was so wholly unlike him it made Hermione pause. In a flash, she became aware of rising noise levels from the Slytherin table and reasoned it was probably the time to abandon breakfast. "Come on Neville, let's go somewhere else for a little while yeah?" Neville was still completely unresponsive, but Hermione tugged on his arm until he was on his feet. She looped her arm under his, and all but dragged him into the corridor, which was not easy given their respective heights. Briefly, she was stumped for where to go, Neville should not be on his own, but she didn't think he would want people to see him like this. Without a better idea, she headed to Professor McGonagall's office.

Her head of house opened the door quickly, and her eyes reflected immediate understanding when she saw Neville. She opened the door wide for them to walk through and Hermione led him to a comfortable chair, having to push him down into it physically.

"He's been like this since breakfast, I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, I wasn't sure what else to do," she explained in hushed tones, not that Neville seemed aware of what was happening around him at that moment.

"It's ok Hermione; I believe it will not be an hour before Neville's gran requests that he go home for a short time."

"Ok,” Hermione said, feeling slightly anxious, “I’ll say goodbye then." She walked over to Neville who was staring blankly ahead. "I'm going now ok? I think your gran is going be here soon, owl me if you need anything."

Remembering what brought them there, Hermione reached over and tugged at his wrist, pressing her fingers against the pulse point and slowly turning his palm over, before using both hands to pull his fingers apart, and grasping at the tightly pressed ball of paper and lifting it out. When she closed Neville’s fist she squeezed both her hands over it, dropping the parchment in the bin and exiting the office.

* * *

As the morning had been completely derailed Hermione was certain she would not be able to concentrate in the library. Instead, she decided to head back to the common room, hopeful that an hour in front of the fire, with a non-school book, would make her feel a little better. She had only just sat down when the portrait hole swung open, and Harry entered,  _ give a girl a break! _ He moved in her direction, and she risked asking how he was feeling. He shrugged, "I don't know, not sure of anything anymore," sitting dejectedly on the small sofa next to her, and after making a production of taking off his outer robe and shoes, he finally continued. "Hermione, I know I've been difficult this year, but I am grateful to you, you know that right? You're a pretty amazing person to have in my corner, and I'm fairly sure if it weren't for your revision schedule you would have taken out Voldemort yourself by now so that I wouldn't have to worry about it."

She scoffed, but her heart lifted to hear a teasing tone in his voice. She missed this version of Harry so much, her sassy, sarcastic friend that made her laugh more than anyone else. His face turned serious an instant later as he seemed to be thinking very hard about something. "You and Luna, you've become close this year, right?" he asked hesitantly.

Although slightly taken back by the change in direction Hermione answered quickly, "Yes, why do you ask?"

"Well, when I left breakfast I didn't know where I was headed. I ended up walking past Hagrid's into the start of the Forbidden Forest and came across Luna who was feeding the Thestrals. She err, she talked a bit about her mum and stuff," he trailed off.

"Oh, was she upset?" Hermione asked concerned.

"No, she was just... Well, Luna about it. Said she still saw her, her mum I mean, and frankly I'm not sure my brain could process that so I left it but... That's not what, what I mean to say is-"

"Spit it out Harry!" she implored, her anxiety rising.

"It's, well, she wasn't wearing any shoes," he finished looking up into her face for the first time since their odd conversation began. Hermione looked at him blankly, trying to decipher the code the teenage boy in front of her was speaking in so she could get to the subtext of this conversation before nightfall. She looked beseechingly at him, and he sighed. “She was barefoot, and it's cold,  _ really cold, _ out there, when I asked about it, she said something about Wargles or something."

"Nargles Harry,” Hermione corrected automatically, “please for the love of Merlin get to the point."

"Ok, ok I'm sorry, when I pressed her she said that her shoes were missing… like  _ all of them _ . From the way she described it I'm guessing it happens a lot. I think someone's picking on her."

Hermione was gripped by a spike of rage in her chest that she hadn't felt so strongly since Harry showed her his hand following his detentions with Umbridge. "They're stealing her shoes? Who?" She asked.

Harry’s eyebrows rose, and she knew he had picked up on the deceptively calm tone of her voice. "I don't know, you know Luna, she talked in circles and acted as if it was perfectly normal to be out in the middle of January without so much as socks on her feet."

"Thank you for telling me, I know you need someone to talk to right now but I need to find Luna. Did she come in with you?"

"No, she stayed out, its fine Mione, just you know... Try not to kill anyone today yeah?" he said with a mirthless laugh.

"Of course not Harry," Hermione answered with false cheer. He gave her a relieved smile. "It will take me longer than one day to find out who's responsible, and I'm hardly the type to kill indiscriminately." Harry made to interrupt, but Hermione ploughed on, "sorry Harry need to go, Ron was heading out to get some fly time in earlier if you want some company, I would suggest finding him."

* * *

After a quick stop in her dorm, Hermione headed to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, using the route Harry had described. Despite having not been there before, she quickly spied Luna, facing away from her, and headed to meet her. "Hi Hermione," Luna breathed out, in her normal dreamlike tones, Harry was right, she certainly didn't  _ sound _ upset.

"Hi Luna, what are you doing out here?" she asked lightly, trying to keep her eyes away from her friend’s dirty feet.

"Feeding the Thestrals, there are about six right in front of us," Luna replied, pointing into the seemingly abandoned clearing.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the ominous woodland. "I'll take your word for it."

Luna grinned, "That's it, you'll just take my word for it? No cross examination, no going to the library to check?"

"Yes, improbable as it seems, I now no longer question everything you say, even though I worry that it may indicate I've had an aneurysm in the last few months and not noticed,” Hermione sassed. “Though in this case, it is not complete blind faith. I saw you toss a piece of meat as I approached that seemed to disappear in mid-air.”

Luna smiled, "You know you are not as ruled by logic as you think, anyone can spot that you're a romantic at heart Hermione."

"Well,” Hermione stuttered slightly, not sure why such a remark had affected her so deeply. “I didn't come here to talk about me, I brought you some shoes," she reached into her bag and handed over the dark pink chucks. "My mum bought these for me over the summer, that shade of pink is her favourite. When she met my dad, she used to wear pink lipstick and matching nail polish, every day. The thought was nice but they're a bit loud for me, she's always trying to get me to wear more colour. I don't know if they will fit, but you can just transfigure them," Hermione prattled, before placing his shoes in Luna’s hands. She always shared more than she expected to when speaking to the quiet blonde, but it was such a nice feeling to be able to talk and know there would be no judgment.

Luna looked down at the shoes in her hands, "Do you mind if make the laces sparkly?" she asked eagerly.

Sometimes Hermione wondered if Luna hid behind her apparent dottiness to avoid showing discomfort or hurt. "Go ahead; they're yours now." Luna smiled and sat on the forest floor to slip them on, it turned out the shoes didn't need to be adjusted to fit, and Luna charmed the laces to sparkle with bright silver shimmers. "They look great,” Hermione said, keeping her eyes fixed on the glittering laces. “I've also spelled them with an anti-theft jinx, no one, apart from you, will be able to remove them from your dorm without getting a bit of a nasty burn on their hands." Hermione tried to sound as nonchalant as possible but she wasn't much of an actress, and Luna was bloody perceptive, so she knew ignorance wouldn't hold up.

"Do you think your jinx would work on Nargles?" Luna said, her voice small.

"No,” Hermione replied, willing herself to be patient, compassionate, and as calm as possible. “But I think it would work pretty well on whoever it is in your house that's doing this.” Hermione crossed her arms to fight off the chill in her fingers, the biting sensation just making her madder, “Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm not one of your projects you know, I don't need you to campaign on my behalf, and anyway, all my stuff gets returned at the end of the year, it's never damaged," Luna argued, though her voice stayed serene. She stared blankly into the clearing and Hermione wished she could see what she was seeing, just for a moment.

"You're not one of  _ my projects _ Luna, you’re my friend, my best friend," Luna's eyes raised then and Hermione felt her stomach clench at the tears forming in the younger girl’s eyes, her face didn't look right with a sad expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't come out here to make you more upset,” Hermione continued, scolding herself for her harshness, “but I want to help, and that doesn't mean I think you're a house elf or something like that, it's just my way. I've spent all of my school years thus far practically waging war on Harry's behalf, and you don't think he's one of my projects do you?"

"No," Luna's agreed, her voice so quiet Hermione could barely hear her.

"Ok, well," Hermione continued, raising her sleeve to rub away the tears that had dropped to her cheeks, "I think it's time to head to the kitchens, get warmed up and I will teach you the anti-theft jinx. I want you to promise you will put it on all your stuff. Then I will  _ attempt  _ to get some studying done before another crisis develops."

"What crisis?" Luna asked as she patted her own sleeve against her face.

"You mean you don't already know?" Hermione asked teasingly, and Luna rolled her eyes, "I'll tell you on the way come on."

"Ok,” Luna agreed, waving her hand at the clearing in front of them, “thank you, for the shoes and for well, everything." Hermione nodded, and the girls made to walk back towards the castle.

"Luna, you know I'm going to have to do more than the anti-theft jinx right?"

Luna breathed out a laugh, "I don't want you to, but I understand why you feel you have to, you're my best friend too."

"Well, I won't tell you anything about it, just consider it taken care of, and now can we just talk about Snarkle Fells or Blithering Humdingers or something, after the events of today I could do with a dose of your brand of normal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Fancasts: Antonin Dolohov - Michiel Huisman (from the beautiful mind of Thrifty Crimson) and Reuben Yaxley - Richard Armitage.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been an exhausting day. The Death Eater breakout had an enormous impact on both Harry and Neville, and then Hermione’s talk with Luna had left her both angry and drained. Hermione had climbed into bed an hour before her usual time, but so far hadn't been able to get to sleep. She imagined there would be a fair few people in the castle in the same position that evening. The student body were not the only ones affected by the Prophet report, Umbridge went into a tailspin. Ten escaped Death Eaters missing in the country set the school’s rumour mill into overdrive, and the High table had been approached multiple times during meals, with clusters of students asking questions from the sensible to the ridiculous. By the time curfew had rolled around that evening _Educational Decree No. 26_ was being hammered into a wall now in real danger of falling from the added weight. The decree prevented staff from discussing the mass breakout, at all, highlighting the High Inquisitor's limited understanding of social dynamics, by preventing anyone curtailing the ridiculous speculation it would only get more out of hand.

Ron had come back to the common room enraged because Malfoy had taken points for him being ‘ginger and poor'. When Hermione had waved her hand dismissively reminding him that Malfoy couldn't take points from Prefects, Ron grimaced and told her about the Inquisitorial Squad Umbridge had formed that afternoon and the new powers they had. She had sighed, letting her eyes close and her head fall back against the sofa... _bugger_.

Hermione shrugged the covers off her bed, reaching down to pull out the Prophet from her school bag. She still hadn't had a chance to go through the article in detail. Setting herself back against the pillows she continued scanning the images of the Death Eaters until her eyes fell on a picture that was notably different to the rest; Antonin Dolohov was perfectly still in his photo, the two Aurors ‘holding’ him merely had a hand on each of his arms. He looked to be in his late twenties, with dark wavy hair that fell onto one side of his face, obscuring the view of his dark brown eyes. He would have almost look bored if it wasn't for the almost violent intensity present in his gaze, from the picture alone Hermione felt like he was boring into her with an aura of raw power that was frightening. All of the others wore their cruelty as armour, unleashing themselves in their pictures like they knew, which they probably did, that the general public would see, they wanted to invoke fear. Dolohov wasn't the same; he could conjure terror without posturing.

She skimmed the article again and her eyes clouded with tears when she read that the released Lestrange's were put in prison for the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom. Poor Neville. His response that morning made so much more sense now. Professor McGonagall had told her later that his gran had come to meet him and he had gone home for a couple of days, given the current tension in the castle that seemed like a good idea.

* * *

Hermione knew she had to tackle Luna's missing possessions soon, the longer she stewed, the more extreme her reaction would be, and she couldn't risk getting in trouble with the Inquisitorial Squad running around the castle. So she considered her options, she understood bullying, speaking to a teacher might make things worse. The only solution she could think of was to talk to someone _inside_ Ravenclaw, but she didn't know who was responsible, or even how widespread the issue was. It was evident a few students must be aware of it, _were they all involved or merely turning a blind eye?_

Resolving to talk to the seventh year Prefect, Penelope Clearwater, she pondered her approach. Hermione knew that an older student might view her as an irritant rather than take her seriously. A lot of that was down to her delivery; _maybe it would be a good time to take up swearing?_ It wasn't her intention to be threatening, she didn't need to be, she was a force to be reckoned with when she felt she had right on her side, like always. Still, it would be good to have some backup, in case an _alternative_ was required.

What she needed was a bad cop to her good cop, or preferably, someone that seemed ever so slightly unstable when angered. If films had taught her anything, there was nothing scarier than a smiling assassin. She needed shock value; she needed barely suppressed rage, she needed… Ginny Weasley.

* * *

 

Ginny had needed microscopic encouragement to be involved when Hermione had filled her in. Growing up with six older brothers had afforded Ginny a level of protection when she first came to Hogwarts, protection that Luna didn't have. It troubled both the girls that whoever was responsible was singling Luna out, not just because of her _individuality_ but because they perceived she was without allies. That was going to change. They found Penelope leaving the Prefect office after lunch, and Hermione politely requested a moment of her time. The tall blonde acted as if she was being _incredibly_ gracious by offering a few minutes and suddenly Hermione realised what her and Percy Weasley must have seen in each other. "We need to speak to you about Luna Lovegood; I believe she is being bullied by students in Ravenclaw House. They are taking her possessions and hiding them, often with her not getting everything back until the end of term," Hermione stated, seeing no point in beating around the bush.

"What do you expect me to do about it?" Penelope snapped, and Hermione narrowed her eyes. She wasn't a naturally polite girl, but she was respectful to a fault, until someone gave her a reason not be.

"I'm _so_ sorry; I was under the impression you were the seventh year Prefect. Make. It. Stop," Hermione ground out.

Penelope took one look at the both of them and burst out laughing. "Was that supposed to be intimidating Granger? Your bossiness may work on your own year, in your own house, where intelligence like yours is scarce, but you do not frighten me. So you _will not_ instruct me on what I will, or will not do, do we understand each other Miss Granger? Or will I need to take this up with your Head of House," Penelope finished, an officious little smile on her face.

Ginny made to rush forward wand in hand, but Hermione held her arm out to block her. She grinned turning back to Penelope. "I wasn't attempting to be intimidating at all _Miss Clearwater,_ " she answered in a sing-song voice, "when I have good, firm evidence as to who the perpetrators are _I_ will take it to _my_ Head of House. You see we have spelled all of Luna's things, anyone that attempts to take her stuff again will get a pretty nasty burn," she informed the blonde breezily.

"You what?!” Penelope exploded, “You cannot just go around jinxing objects to trick people into hurting themselves, it's not for you to hand out punishment."

"I've done nothing of the sort,” Hermione retorted defensively, “I've merely placed an anti-theft spell on my friend’s things, if no one tries to steal anything no one will be harmed, and anyway _it's not a punishment._ "

"It depends on your view of punishment, burning someone's hand seems a little over the top for a prank," Penelope admonished.

Hermione’s face hardened. "Maybe to you, but then this has not been happening to you. Every year. For five years. At the risk of repeating myself, it's not a punishment, rather, the burn will be an identifying mark. You see Luna has become quite ingrained with the students of Gryffindor House, especially the fourth and fifth years, and they were all made aware this morning that burns that appear on the hands of Ravenclaws indicate bullies and well, you know how passionate Gryffindor's like Ginny here can be." Hermione made a pre-practised gesture and the redhead waved, her face twisted in a horrifyingly cheerful smile.

"You expect me to believe that the _great Hermione Granger_ , rule stickler and annoying swot would attack students in the corridors?" Penelope replied sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest in a display of indifference.

"Of course not, as most people in this castle would attest, I am tied up in seemingly old-fashioned notions of fairness, but Ginny here-"

"Really?" Penelope interrupted, rolling her eyes.

"Ginny, would you mind?" Hermione asked, in a nauseating tone of voice.

"It would be my pleasure," Ginny responded matching her tone. She spun on the ball of her foot and launched a bat bogey hex at the closest student in the corridor, who, unfortunately for him, turned out to be Ron. He let out an impressively shrill scream and dropped to the floor next to a completely bemused Harry.

Penelope regarded both the girls in front of her, and there was a brief pause as she appeared to be contemplating her response. " _Fine,_ ” she huffed out finally, “I'll speak to the girls."

"Excellent, thank you _so_ very much, Penelope, we are _so_ grateful for your time," Hermione simpered and with that herself, and Ginny swept off down the corridor.

"Did you really mention it to everyone in Gryffindor?" Ginny asked when they had moved a far enough distance from the condescending Prefect and a livid Ron.

"Of course not, I haven't had time, I'm sure they would all stick up for Luna but I don't want people knowing she's being bullied. She didn't offer up the information, I dragged it out of her, and I don't want her to feel humiliated," she explained.

Ginny nodded, "I'll keep quiet, but make sure to invite me if you _ever_ want to do anything like that again I had so much fun."

"What about Ron?” Hermione questioned, fighting to keep the smile off her face, “He didn't do anything to provoke that."

"I'm sure he has done something to deserve it in the last few days, and if not we can call it one in the bank," Ginny responded totally unconcerned.

* * *

After a full day given over to sleep, showering every time he woke up, and eating as much as he could stomach, Antonin felt well enough to leave his room, which was advantageous, as today was the first scheduled 'briefing' for the escaped Death Eaters. He and Yaxley found themselves in the main dining room of Malfoy Manor, at least he _hoped_ it was the main dining room, the grand table in the centre of the room was delicately carved and looked like it could hold at least fifty. They sat awkwardly, on uncomfortable chairs, slowly letting the social graces that had been ingrained in them since birth rise to the surface as they greeted each other.

The first session would be a ‘history lesson’ of sorts where they would be brought up to speed on the changes that had occurred while they were in Azkaban. Antonin was keen to get started, he hated not knowing things, and if the Dark Lord had liberated them, war must be close, he intended to finish this one without further incarceration. However, it wasn't just the modern world he was interested in, the more pressing information to be gleaned from the day would be the state of his fellow escapes in this room. Who had lost their sanity to Azkaban? Or in the case of Bella, what was left of it. But Bellatrix, thankfully, wasn't there. Reuben had mentioned earlier that it appeared Bella's disposition had not been improved by fourteen years with only her own mind for company, and it had been decided that her presence was not _conducive_ to getting anything done. No doubt she would have been told that it was a reward for being one of the Dark Lord's 'most faithful'. It was the right course of action, trying to hold a meeting while someone repeatedly screamed incoherently, which was all Antonin had heard from her room thus far, was unlikely to add to the discourse. He glanced around the room, observing the interactions of the assembled _Bratva._ There would be no point in attempting to determine who was trustworthy, the answer was no one, what he needed was to assess was _how_ untrustworthy, he didn't want to turn his back on someone and regret it.

Lucius Malfoy was leading proceedings, making no pains to disguise how much he was enjoying it, strutting around like one of his ridiculous birds. Antonin wondered if the pompous blond had bartered with the Dark Lord, when their Master had first _suggested_ using his manor as the location for a Death Eater rehousing programme, or if Lucius had graciously acquiesced, on the basis that he could Lord himself over them at any given opportunity. Many around the table did not care for Lucius Malfoy, some because he had avoided Azkaban and instead got to live in his ridiculous manor with his beautiful wife, while the rest of them were left to rot. Many simply disliked him because he was an obnoxious prat. In the last wizarding war, despite being a part of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and being one of the campaign's chief benefactors, he rarely got his hands dirty. Lucius gave off an air of superiority, no doubt stemming from being raised to believe he was better than all of those around him. To the less observant it would appear as if Lucius did not care about the hostile atmosphere, but Antonin could never be described as such, he knew better than that. Loathed to admit it, even to himself, Lucius was one of the smarter Death Eaters, and he was evaluating the occupants of the room every bit as much as Antonin was.

They covered off all of the major events since the end of the last wizarding war, and then there was an in-depth delivery of the current political landscape. It was no surprise to Antonin that the Ministry denied that the Dark Lord had come back, they had always been very easy to manipulate. Times changed, economics changed, but power, and the type of people that pursued it never did. He doubted it would be long before the entire government was neutralised.

The meeting passed quietly, save for a few questions, and stopping every two hours to eat. There wasn't much emotion in the room, most of the recently liberated Death Eaters were still trying to adjust to life on the outside, and it would take weeks to be operating anywhere near normally. Antonin knew that he was likely irrevocably damaged by the stretch, he had been young and relatively sane when he went in, which was not advantage that many could boast. That the Prophet reported Sirius Black as being responsible for orchestrating the escape raised a few derisive laughs. Antonin had met Black as a child, and again as a young man, he was smart, and a talented duellist, but criminal mastermind seemed a little generous.

During yet another food break Antonin forced down the bread and thin soup presented, cursing his body for not being able to process something larger. He pushed the half-empty bowl to the side when Lucius started up again, this time beginning with Harry Potter. The name made the already quiet room silent. _How could this child be so hard to kill?_ Lucius read excerpts from the last letter from his son, Draco, seemingly his wife had won when it came to baby names, _but being married to Lucius she lost overall_ , he thought unkindly. Draco was in the same year as Potter, and the missive mainly covered the growing speculation concerning Potter's mental health. _What was Lucius doing pulling Draco into all of this?_ Antonin's father had urged him to follow the Dark Lord, but he had not been a Death Eater himself. His father had been a darker wizard than most, but he had loved his only child, and Antonin was sure that had he fully understood what it meant to be a follower, he would not have been so forceful in pushing his son to join the cause. Not that he was abdicating responsibility for the acts he had undertaken, onto either his father or the Dark Lord. No one had held a wand to his head; Antonin had been more than willing, he _believed_ in the cause. But that had been before Azkaban. He couldn't say for certain how he felt now. He had only been out days he reminded himself, maybe things would change, but the idea of fighting had lost its appeal, slightly. The vehemence for which he held his views had softened over the time spent in a cell, pondering his existence. _Did any of it matter enough to be locked up again?_ Antonin wasn't sure. Maybe it was a case of finding purpose, something to fight for? He was no reformed character. It wasn't even like he wanted to be, he had _pursued_ dark magic, had lusted after its power. He enjoyed intimidation, and he could be ruthless, even cruel. He was involved in many of the worst Death Eater actions and had built a reputation as a deadly duellist with a penchant for prolonging pain; he used the fear it brought him as a weapon to assert his dominance. Antonin derailed his train of thought; he didn't want to dwell on the idea of power for long, all too aware of how depleted he was, magically and physically, he hoped to rectify both as soon as possible.

Once Lucius had _finally_ come up for air, the assembled wizards were invited to sift through documents that had been collated for them on the table. Antonin shuffled absentmindedly through the pictures and parchment strewn without discernible order. There were various bills passed by the Wizengamot, and listings of how people had voted, biographical detail on known members of the reformed Order of the Phoenix, most were familiar faces. There were also agendas of creatures and beings that could be persuaded to join their side, and explanations of what they wanted in return, as well as newspaper articles from the last two decades. Antonin sifted through, cataloguing various facts until a small movement caught his eye, and he stilled his hand. It was an article from the Daily Prophet from a little over a year before, concerning The Triwizard Tournament and a girl called Hermione Granger. He skimmed the feature, alarmed to find that the love life of a fourteen-year-old girl was somehow newsworthy enough to be printed in a national paper. After reading the salacious first paragraph, he discounted the words on the page immediately. "Who is this?" he asked, speaking for the first time that day. He held the page aloft, directing his question at Malfoy.

"Hermione Granger. Mudblood friend of Harry Potter,” Lucius answered succinctly. “In the same year I believe, Severus will be coming tomorrow to shed a bit more light on Potter and his _menagerie._ "

Antonin opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, there was a loud smash that rang out, echoing around the carved ceiling in the stylish room. All eyes went to Rodolphus Lestrange who had dropped his glass tumbler against the table's edge. Rodolphus didn't make any attempt to move, explain, or even react to the incident or any pain, his hand was cut in a few places. His brother, Rabastan, stood from his seat, putting his hands on his shoulders. "Come on Dolph, let's get that looked at yeah?" he began, pushing Rodolphus towards the door, then turned to address the room. "He's still getting used to glasses and cups, some persistent problems with his grip." Antonin turned to Reuben who was already looking in his direction; they share a glance that confirmed they both knew that was a lie.

Lucius started up on some other subject, but Antonin occluded him out easily, _maybe Azkaban had been useful for something?_ His eyes fell back to study the picture of the tiny girl in the soft blue dress, being twirled around by a boy in Durmstrang robes. The boy was named in the article, Viktor Krum, a Triwizard Champion and some kind of Quidditch prodigy. Krum was staring at the girl, _Hermione_ , his eyes intense and his mouth set in a grim line. Her face could not have been more different, her eyes twinkled when he bowed, and she erupted into fits of giggles every time she was lifted, lighting up the whole picture with her smile, and then the motion of the photograph began again. There was another picture on the page, and in this snapshot she was in her school uniform. Antonin could make out the crest for Gryffindor House peeking from the bottom of the frame. Her robes were ill fitting, and she had none of the effortless style she displayed in the previous picture. Seeing her hair in what he supposed was its natural state was slightly unexpected, it appeared to have a life all of its own. Her smile was not as bright, and when she tentatively opened her mouth her teeth look a little too big for her face.

"A bit young for you surely?" Reuben breathed out, muted enough for no one else to have heard, holding back his laughter at Antonin's jump. He threw article back into the middle of the table and Yaxley howled with laughter at his reaction disturbing everyone else. Using that as a distraction, no one noticed as Antonin quickly duplicated the page and slid the parchment into his robes

* * *

Hermione was sitting cross-legged, propped up against the wall in the Room of Requirement. The numbers had been uneven for the DA that day, as some of the regular members had been taken down by either colds or Quidditch injuries. As there were not the right number of students for even pairs, she was currently in a three with Luna and Ginny, and it was her turn to watch. She quietly mused that recently she had become lackadaisical in her revolutionary activities, what with the time she had spent setting up the DA, and her studies, it had somewhat fallen by the wayside. It was time to ramp it up a notch. Harry was deteriorating again. Leading the DA normally had a calming effect on her friend, today, however, he was clearly struggling with more than just the usual lack of sleep. Harry would never admit it, but the fact that he was not believed weighed heavily on him. _But what could she do?_ The Prophet was still ignoring Voldemort’s return and instead was continuing to push the Ministry’s 'Harry and Dumbledore are mad and a menace to all society' propaganda. Her eyes fell on Luna as the blonde expertly shielded a tripping jinx from Ginny, _maybe they could release Harry's side of the story?_ Hermione watched as the girls continued to throw spells at each other, they were fairly evenly matched though Ginny favoured offensive magic. Their duel eventually ended when Ginny managed to disarm Luna after she had got a tickling jinx through her shields, simple but effective.

"Luna, do you think your dad would run an article, Harry's point of view from the night that Voldemort came back?" Hermione asked as the girls moved over to join her.

"Yes, I believe so, Daddy is very concerned about the goings on in the Ministry lately,” Luna replied absently, as she stretched to pick up a cup of water from by Hermione’s knee. “He believes werewolves have infiltrated the water supply with babbling potion following the release of stricter regulation on creatures and of course he believes Harry, he would love to be able to show his support publicly."

"That's great,” Hermione enthused, “could you speak to your dad for me? And please keep it to yourself for now, until I talk to Harry.”

* * *

Hermione reflected that she had now spent a vast portion of her relatively short life convincing Harry to do things that were in his own interest. As with his reaction to the DA, he had been ardent in his initial refusal to have anything to do with a news story. Hermione could understand his reservations, his association with the press to date had hardly been pleasant, though, once she impressed upon him the opportunity to tell his side of the story he capitulated rather quickly.

They entered the Three Broomsticks; _lesson learnt thank you, Sirius_ , settling themselves with butterbeers in a far corner with a good view of the door, waiting for the journalist to arrive. "No one is going to believe me if it's printed in The Quibbler, I know _we_ like Luna, but people aren't going to take it seriously," Harry started, rehashing one of their back and forths for about the twentieth time that morning.

"I am aware Harry, I am one of the those ridiculously practical people, and as much as I don't like myself for saying it, I'm not sure I would have believed it had I seen the story printed in that paper for the first time," she replied in hushed tones.

"Then what are we doing here?" he protested.

"I have told you I was aware of the issue, do you really think, having known me for all this time, that I would have spotted a strategy hole like that and not addressed it?" Harry just crossed his arms and huffed, so she continued, "Never mind, all will be revealed."

Revealed it was. Five minutes later the lurid green robes of Rita Skeeter glided into the bar, and she perched herself down in front of them both. Harry looked from her to Hermione incredulously, "What are you playing at Mione?" he barked.

"Now Harry, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Rita simpered, and Hermione grimaced.

"Please refrain from antagonising him," she sighed, regretting her decision already. "I'm sure we'd all like this done as quickly as possible," Rita sneered in response, and Hermione leant forward smiling sweetly. "I could put you back in the jar, or would you prefer a different receptacle this time, change it up a bit?” she said in as innocent a tone as she could muster.

Rita’s face reddened. "Listen here you little bitch, I am _only_ here because of the threat you hold over my head, after I have risked my career to have an article of _mine_ printed in that rag, you and me are done, no more favours," Rita blazed, and Hermione was silently rather smug at her apparent ability to discombobulate the older witch.

"I couldn't agree more Rita; there will be no more _favours,_ " she turned to Harry. "Although Rita is _repugnant_ in every way, the wizarding public holds her brand of... _journalism_ to some esteem; it will lend weight to your credibility." Harry made a face like he was sucking a lemon, "Yes, I am aware Harry, do you think I want to be sat across the table from her?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow, when he didn't respond she turned back to Rita. “Let's just get this over with."

It didn't take long, Rita may have been human garbage but she was somewhat efficient, and when they were done she looked somewhat appeased. Degradation to her career or not, the story was very juicy, and as the writer had only a passing acquaintance with the truth Hermione was sure it didn't matter if Rita believed in Harry or not, she would make the article convincing as it would be more kudos to her that way. Skeeter stood to leave but paused picking imaginary lint off her coat before glaring down at Hermione.

"If this is all true, and he hasn't lost his mind, there might be comeuppances for me. If I end up with Death Eaters on my doorstep I'm sending them to you Granger," she said viciously.

Hermione regarded her impassively, noting the contrived way she had waited to stand before launching any intimidation attempt, against a schoolgirl. "You do that; I'm sure they will wait until _your say so_ to come after one of the most talked about Mudbloods of the modern age, thanks for your part in that by the way. Don't fret Rita, your kind always manage to come out unscathed, the only thing to survive a nuclear blast is a cockroach after all.”

“Beetle,” the furious witch corrected through gritted teeth.

“If you say so,” Hermione conceded unconcerned before turning to Harry and ignoring the witch’s pathetically dramatic exit from the pub.

* * *

A week later Hermione was preparing for bed, sat on top of her covers and reviewing their handiwork. The article had been printed, and she had to admit, despite all of Skeeter's usual sensationalism being on display, the piece was good. The effect of the article had been even more immediate than the report on the Death Eater escapes; The Quibbler had already been banned at Hogwarts, Umbridge once again showing how little she understood children, the entire student body would have a copy by the end of the week. Luna had skipped up to Hermione in the library earlier, her father had written, they’d had to arrange a reprint to meet demand.

Harry was on a high. Their professors had been finding ways to award him scores of points all day, he passed a book to Hermione in Charms, and Professor Flitwick awarded fifteen points for his ‘kindness’. She felt it was their way of rewarding him for his bravery.

Even better she had noticed the softening glances of the other students towards her friend. Earlier that evening Seamus Finnigan had come along to the DA meeting with Dean. A lot of people hadn't believed Harry that year, but the censure of his dorm mate and friend had been particularly cutting. Hermione hoped that the successes they had gained within Hogwarts were being replicated outside of the castle.

* * *

Hermione had slept well for the first time since Umbridge had interrupted Dumbledore at the Welcome Feast. She subtly watched Harry from across the breakfast table and smiled at his more rested appearance. It warmed her heart to see him look more like himself; he needed it. The jubilance had carried from the day before, and not even the prospect of a Quidditch match could dampen her spirits.

Shortly after she had put together her plate, Luna walked into the Great Hall to stunned silence from the assembled students. Alongside her typically bizarre weekend attire she was wearing an almost life-sized lion head sat on top of her blonde hair, and secured around her chin. Hermione had no idea how she was even able to support its weight as she walked over seemingly unconcerned by the whispers around her to their table.

"Good luck today Harry, I'll be supporting Gryffindor," she said, her voice slightly muffled, pointing needlessly to her head.

"Thanks Luna, nice... Lion…. Hat?" Harry hedged, and Hermione was glad he had addressed it first as she had been running through a preparation of what to say about it herself.

"Thank you, it was supposed to be chewing a snake, but I didn't get the time," she said with a smile turning to Hermione. "Look", she patted the side of the head, and it let out an incredibly loud, very realistic, roar.

Ignoring the shell-shocked faces all around the hall Hermione stood and beamed at her friend, "Wow Luna, that's amazing! Come on let's head to the field; we better find a seat where you're not going to be obstructing anyone's view."

"I'll come with you," she heard Neville say, though she couldn't see him as her vision was totally hampered by the giant headpiece.

The three students walked towards the Quidditch pitch, aimlessly chatting until Luna ran on ahead, muttering something about wanting to show her Head of House her charm work. With the buffer of Luna gone Hermione suddenly felt a little awkward, remembering the last time she had been in Neville's company and got a bit stuck over what to say next.

"So," Neville began, and Hermione turned to face him quickly, grateful that he had broken the silence. "Err, I wanted to say thank you for the other day, for getting me out of the Great Hall. That article was… _difficult_ for me, I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there.” He looked away from her, staring with some concentration at the damp grass. “I'm sorry you had to see me like that."

Hermione smiled softly at him, "You’re welcome, don't worry about it, you were fine. I've seen Ron and Harry in much worse states. I'm glad I could help, wish I could have done more really but-"

Neville cut her off, "You couldn't have done any more, and I'm… I'm glad you were there.” With that Hermione and Neville continued the rest of the journey to the stands, in silence, cheeks both a little pink.

* * *

As Lucius had warned, the next day the Death Eaters met again in the dining room, this time with Severus Snape holding court. Snape was the only one among the marked that was considered even less popular than Malfoy. To start with he was a poor, half blood, then, he too had avoided Azkaban. While Malfoy was hated for avoiding the prison by falsely claiming Imperious, Snape was _despised_ for throwing himself at the feet of Albus Dumbledore. Snape, they had been told, was supposedly acting as a spy, Antonin wasn't sure he believed that. _Everyone_ knew that Snape had loved Lily Potter, even if you hadn't seen them at Hogwarts together it had been openly talked about in Death Eater circles. He was sure, for a man like Snape, Lily had been the only good, light thing in his life. The severe looking wizard had hated James Potter more than anything, so much so that even when the seemingly fated pair had gotten married, he continued to refer to her by her maiden name. They had been estranged for some time, a good while before he took the mark if Narcissa was to be believed, and yet the torch he held for her never diminished. Snape never even looked in the general direction of another witch as far as Antonin knew, that whole part of himself belonging wholly to Lily. Then the Dark Lord killed her. Snape had supposedly begged for her to be spared. Men like them did not beg, nor did they forgive when people acted against their own.

Snape went into detail on Hogwarts starting with the castle itself, protections and enhancements, then staff and Dumbledore's comings and goings. He highlighted the potential candidates for the mark from the students that were coming to the end of their seventh year, and finally, he moved to Harry Potter. That Snape hated Potter as much as he had hated his father was obvious, he could barely keep his tone neutral when he said his name.

"Potter, for lack of a better expression, is an idiot,” he drawled. “He has had survived thus far through a combination of sheer dumb luck and a reliance on the talents of those around him. He is close to his godfather Sirius Black who he is now associated with following his _liberation_ two years ago. He also regularly spends time with Sirius' werewolf friend Remus Lupin, as well as having a close relationship with Dumbledore himself."

Snape listed all of Harry Potter adventures, from a possessed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to a Basilisk and Barty Crouch Jr. "He has had a challenging year, following his proclamation that the Dark Lord had returned most of the students have turned their back on him, but not his closest friends. The first of which being Ron Weasley, the _sixth_ Weasley,” Snape uttered with an air of distaste, though whether for the red haired blood traitors in general, or excessive reproduction was uncertain.

“It would also appear that he has romantic designs on the _seventh_ Weasley, Ginevra. Ron is mostly loyal but has the occasional fit of jealousy that leaves them not speaking. If you can believe it, he is as stupid, maybe even more so than Potter. His other close friend, Hermione Granger, has long been recognised to be the _brains_ of the _Golden Trio,_ " Snape spat out the nickname. "She is the brightest in her year, and many regard her as the brightest witch of her age." There were snorts and a few muttered comments around the table and though Antonin remained silent, his interest was piqued.

"She's a Mudblood, she must be copying from someone. There is no way she has achieved those results on her own merit." It was Mulciber who spoke, but the majority of the table made positive noises. He heard Yaxley groan at the derailment; he wasn't known for his patience; however, Antonin was too busy watching Rodolphus to pay attention to the clamour. He had been focusing what Snape had to say about Hermione, but he noticed he wasn't the only one. While Antonin had been masking his interest, Rodolphus had paled at every mention of her name, and now Rabastan next to him was getting twitchy. Something about the brothers was off, and Antonin resolved to find out what it was before long.

* * *

When the meeting let out for the day Reuben and Antonin headed in the same direction, it had only taken a couple of days, but all of the escapees fell back into old allegiances. Antonin found that despite the years that had passed their easy friendship remained. They were both quieter than their peers, though in company Reuben spoke more and had a more forthright, no nonsense demeanour. Yaxley had been raised in the North of England on a remote estate, and though not the same as the snowy, isolated landscape of Russia their upbringing, regarding fundamentals, had been similar. Antonin trusted him, and that trust was reciprocated. They had become fast friends after being sorted into Slytherin together, Antonin being an only child from a prominent Russian family, and Reuben a pureblood scion, and only child, following the death of his younger sibling, they had bonded strongly over the years, becoming more like brothers than friends.

They stepped into his room and fell into their preferred chairs of the last few days, throwing some wards up at the door and making a start on more of the bland food that he had been laid out. "So what do we think?" Reuben asked openly.

"Everyone that we had expected to make it out ‘just about sane’ has done so. We will have until the next full meeting to assess the others, and then I suppose work out where we are in the pecking order now, and what the plans are," Antonin rattled off wearily.

"I didn't live through fourteen years of Azkaban to be lectured by Malfoy and Snape, I'll be glad when this parts over, but what about the rest of it?"

"What do you mean?" Antonin questioned, wiping his hands on a napkin.

"You know what I mean Antonin, you don't exactly seem to be chomping at the bit to get out there killing again," Reuben said cautiously, eyeing him knowingly.

"Maybe not… that's not to say I won't do it, but it isn't about the fight anymore, I would like to focus on getting through this time around." Yaxley stilled, and Antonin was slightly concerned; he had, after all, just intimated that the cause might not be his first priority, to anyone else this would have been information they could use to discredit him with the Dark Lord. He knew his friend wouldn't betray him; they had done everything together since the age of eleven, but he didn't like the idea of them acting independently now when things were likely to be problematic.

"You echo my sentiments," Reuben spoke finally, and Antonin let himself relax, they were silent for a while letting the confession sink in. "What now?"

"We find a way to survive, we need to keep on top of everything, and we need to start with the Lestrange's something going on there."

"Maybe they're just adjusting to life on the outside without Bella here to dictate their every move?" Reuben offered,

"Rodolphus yes, but not Rabastan, he was too volatile to be under Bella's control, though I don't think her being in his ear helped his temper. He never cowed to her the way his brother did."

"Perhaps they already have a task from the Dark Lord?" Reuben tried.

"It's possible,” Antonin nodded, “but I think we should keep watch on them, something doesn't feel right." All that could be heard for some time was the sipping of tea, Antonin would have infinitely preferred firewhisky but was certain his body couldn't handle it yet.

"What about the girl?" Yaxley asked, he looked to be making a concerted effort to keep his face neutral.

"What girl?" Antonin replied dismissively, and Reuben gave him a reproachful look maintaining his gaze for a long moment before Antonin sighed. "I don’t know what you want me to say, I saw a picture of a girl in an article and enquired as to who she was, that is all."

Yaxley placed his teacup down on the table and stared at Antonin seemingly trying to decide on what to say. "Fine, for now, but this conversation isn't over."

“Of course it isn’t,” Antonin replied caustically, and Reuben grinned at him.

“You know everything you're doing is just making this seem more suspicious?”

Antonin carried on as if Reuben had not said anything and eventually the conversation resumed on a different topic.

* * *

When Yaxley left to go to bed Antonin carefully removed the hastily folded parchment from his robes and glancing down, he carefully cut around the pictures and incinerated the article, vividly imagining doing something similar to the author at some point in the future. Delicately holding the images he had liberated from the acerbic text, he placed protective charms over both and spelled them to look like blank parchment if anyone else touched them.

He had no idea why he was so captivated by her, the ridiculously young girl. She wasn't pretty, well, not in an _obvious_ way, but the more he looked, the more he could see how so exquisite she was. She looked perfect in the picture of her dancing but it was her reactions that enthralled him, he didn't think he had ever seen anyone with expressions that open.

He shuffled the pictures in his hand to view the school picture, if he had only seen the ball picture he doubted that he would have reacted quite as strongly. As alluring as the dancing photo was it was like a dream, her school picture was the reality, and she was so very, very real.

Maybe even.. _. attainable?_

  



	5. Chapter 5

Remembering you running soft through the night  
You were bigger and brighter and wider than snow   
And screamed at the make-believe   
Screamed at the sky   
And you finally found all your courage   
To let it all go

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

 

Answering Antonin’s speculation from the week before, it turned out that the Malfoy’s didn’t have a larger dining room, they did, however, have a ballroom that was predictably monumental in scale. Though the atmosphere, around the _even_ larger table, which had been brought in for the occasion, was in stark contrast to that endured through the briefings. The same oppressive quiet permeated the room, but it was no longer born from troubled minds adjusting, it was tense, mostly in anticipation, or in the case of Bella, unhinged excitement. The large space echoed with every slight movement or whispered word. The two parallel rows of black-clad, blank-faced followers looked in one direction, towards the head of the table, a silent show of deference, a way to express the universal willingness to receive instruction.

Half an hour before, Antonin had felt the twisting burn of the summons rip through his arm. Having not experienced the sensation for so long, in his surprise he was reminded of the first ever time he had felt the pull. Antonin had been so proud when the mark was finally welded to his skin, his Lord had smiled, even helped him off the floor, and despite the nausea Antonin had beamed. The pain of bonding the magic to his flesh had been immeasurable, and it had been the first time, of many as it turned out, that Antonin had believed he was close to death. When he had felt his very first summons a week later, he suppressed the small feeling of betrayal that crept up his spine as he registered his muscles contorting. The acute sensation, although only a fraction of the pain involved in anchoring the brand into his skin, had been totally unexpected and his initial indication that his Master liked to inflict pain on his followers, often and indiscriminately.

Despite residing two floors above the location of the meeting, Antonin had accepted the call, immediately was the only acceptable time frame, and he pressed his hand to his arm before landing in the Ballroom, thankfully on both feet. The feeling was similar to blind apparition, and it was going to take some getting used to it again. He kept his face as neutral as possible, it was important not to look weak in front of the assembled crowd. Now that the escapees were re-joining the ranks there would be some shoving over what positions everyone had. Some would be _unhappy_ that they were there, Antonin, while unclear of his overall motivations in general, had no problem with doing what was needed to remain at the top, and no one had earned their place more than they had.

During the last war, the Death Eaters, once summoned, would arrange themselves into circles of decreasing size, the inner circle in the middle and the rest of the followers wrapped around, according to present favour to await their Master. Now though, it was evident no one had any clue where their position was so everyone waited in a cluster for the Dark Lord to arrive. Eye contact was minimal, Antonin moved to the side, relaxing a fraction when Reuben appeared next to him. They were garnering attention, he could feel the sideways looks and hear the soft murmurings, but he paid it no heed, he hadn't got to where he was by shaking hands and sharing stories. If they wanted his respect, they would have to be able to take him down, and by his estimation, there were only a handful of people in the room that wouldn't embarrass themselves by even trying.

A soft thump of feet on the hardwood floor alerted Antonin to his Lord’s arrival, and he, and the rest of his fellow escapees, immediately dropped to one knee, a show of subjugation that made some of the newer followers look on in confusion. When his Master stepped into the dim light, Antonin regarded him for a long time, though he was careful to stare. He wasn't sure what he had expected to see following tales of his Lord’s 'rebirth’, but his Master's appearance was so altered he barely looked human. Antonin did not find the new face as shocking, at least not as much as some of the others clearly did, in many ways the Dark Lord's new bearing was a much more truthful representation of what lurked within the wizard's soul, assuming he still had one. When Antonin had first met him, his Master had been an attractive and charming man, he was congenial and compelling, but the red-eyed viper was only ever simmering under the surface. Antonin wouldn't have been surprised if this had been his _true_ appearance all along, and the engaging 1940s visage had been nothing more than an elaborate glamour.

One by one the _liberated_ Death Eaters were called forward and invited to 'pay their respects', when Antonin was summoned, his name spoken in a pained hiss, he fell to the floor and kissed his Master's ring, grateful that his knees levered when he needed them too. Deference shown he was then urged to take his place at the table in the back of the room, next to Yaxley, his same place from all those years before.

Once everyone had sat in their new places the Dark Lord moved to the head of the table, his bare feet scarcely making a sound against the dark slate floor. He welcomed back the former prisoners, commending them for their ‘service’ to their noble cause and then the meeting began in earnest. Several people had reports to deliver of varying degrees of competency and then Snape was called upon. The table was informed of an article in The Quibbler, detailing the night their Lord had returned. It was an interview with Potter, who had gone as far as to name the Death Eaters that were present. Antonin thought it was a bold move, not quite matching up with the description of the boy that Snape had given only days before. Once many had been given leave to express their displeasure, Snape pressed on, reporting that Dumbledore had left the castle. A few of the assembled suggested a direct attack, seeking to take advantage while Hogwarts was vulnerable. His Master had always had a weakness for the school, they all knew it would be an essential part of any plan for a takeover. The idea was rejected, while the Ministry was still denying his Lord's return and not linking the Azkaban breakout to him, they could use the advantages of operating in the shadows.

After all of the communications had been delivered the bottom half of the table, or what would have been the outer circles, were excused, leaving the newly reformed inner circle, a good portion of which being made up his fellow escapes.

"I have a plan," his Master spoke, in a voice that was somewhere between a rasp and a hiss, "you see, there is a prophecy."

* * *

Hermione would later reflect that the success of The Quibbler article had made them overconfident and complacent. The collective spirit had been so high, after such a hard time for everyone, it was only to be expected that they would relax.

They had been in the Room of Requirement for the latest meeting of the DA. After practising the charm in the last session, the group were all attempting to cast a Patronus. Hermione thought long and hard, breathing deeply to centre herself before mentally conjuring the image of Umbridge's face in the Great Hall when Professor McGonagall had dropped a copy of The Quibbler in front of her. 'Something you should be aware of' her head of house had said, barely keeping the amusement out of her voice. Hermione’s mind honed in on Umbridge's reaction to reading it, her face growing redder and redder as her eyes fell down the page. A familiar smoky, white wisp appeared from the end of her wand, and for a moment she was disheartened until she discerned it was brighter that it had been before. Hermione watched as the frosted light shifted into a shape, uncertain clouds undulated until a tiny animal arose, becoming more tangible, before it danced around Luna, jumping energetically in front of Hermione's face before disappearing, dispersing into hundreds of sparkling droplets.

_It was an otter._

"Well done Hermione!" Harry called from the other side of the room, rushing over to join their group.

"Thank you,” she exclaimed brightly, she was so, so pleased that she had finally done it, “why do you think it was an otter?"

"Well, otters are small,” Ginny began, holding her hands apart to indicate size, “but perfectly formed, with all kinds of brown in their fur, like your hair," she singsonged.

"-And even though they look all cute, they have massive claws," Ron injected.

"-And they are always carrying loads far too big for them, to build their dams, like you with your books,” Harry chimed.

"-And they mate for life, so they’re romantic, like you," Luna whimsically added.

"Alright alright! Thank you for your feedback, who knew you were all such avid wildlife biologists on the side?" Hermione huffed at her red-faced, laughing friends. They had just begun to calm down when a loud crack sounded, and Dobby appeared in the middle of the room, eyes wide with panic.

"Master Harry! Master Harry! They are coming for the room you have to leave now," the elf shouted nervously, tugging at his ears in obvious distress. The room was instantly fraught with tension, but Harry kept his composure and instructed the members to leave in twos as usual. Hermione grabbed onto Ginny, and at Harry’s nod, they were the first to leave.

* * *

The next day Hermione trudged to the library feeling terrible. It had taken her and Ginny over half an hour to make the five-minute trip back to the Tower the night before, stopping to hide whenever they heard a disturbance. The Inquisitorial Squad had been out in force along with a lot of staff, who seemed a great deal less enthusiastic. The initial relief the girls had felt on crossing the threshold to safely had faded quickly when they realised no one else was there, and so they had watched the portrait hole in silence. An hour passed but somehow all of the Gryffindors made it back, except Harry. Hermione waited for him to return, by which time it was barely dark outside.

His shoulders were slumped and his eyes red-rimmed. Hermione had deduced that he had been caught by that point, but the rest of the story she would never have even imagined. They had been betrayed by Marietta Edgecomb, though that in itself was not a total shock, Marietta only came to the meetings because Cho Chang dragged her, she was always looking down her nose at everyone. Hermione felt a twisted sense of pleasure when Harry recounted the details of 'SNEAK' appearing on her forehead in aggressive boils. It was short lived. When he reluctantly told her they had found the members list she had pinned to the wall in the Room of Requirement Hermione cried, Sirius had been right after all, she did still have a lot to learn. By the time Harry got to the part with Dumbledore taking full responsibility and leaving the castle she felt like it was all her fault. For once the typical dynamic between the two friends reversed, Harry held her on his lap, hesitantly rubbing his hand up her spine and telling her it would be fine as Hermione cried into his neck.

She was still bleary eyed now; she assumed that the couple of good nights of sleep she had managed following The Quibbler article would be her last, which was a shame, she could have done with some extra alertness right about now. With the names of the DA public knowledge, the Inquisitorial Squad had declared open season, and there had been several attacks already that day. Unfortunately for Malfoy, and his band of thugs, the DA had been in defence training for months. The insufferable blond could call her a Mudblood till he was blue in the face, which he almost achieved just after breakfast, but he couldn't land a tripping jinx. Making it even harder to claim victory over her, the Twins were acting as part-time bodyguards. It seemed that going to them for help earlier in the year had endeared her to them in some way. After they witnessed a frustrated Pansy Parkinson pocket her wand and resort to pushing Hermione to the floor Fred gave the bitchy girl a pair of antlers, and George swiftly adorned them with a small banner, declaring 'Slytherin Sucks'. Hermione had said it before, and she would say it again, while their attitude often left a lot to be desired she was regularly blown away by their incredibly inventive magic.

Although the support from friends was a great source of comfort, Hermione needed a bit of time alone, so she was on her way to complete a fool's errand.

She walked determinedly through the almost abandoned stacks at the back of the library, way beyond the realm of Madam Pince’s assessing gaze until she found what she was looking for. In the furthest corner, was a small set of shelves with a tiny plaque affixed to the wall above them, ' _Hogwarts Yearbooks_ ' etched onto it with fading calligraphy letters. Hermione’s hand paused in the air for a long moment, wondering why she was doing this until she sucked in a breath and, after a moment's rough calculation, she selected the leather bound book with ‘1980’ on it’s tatty spine. It was somewhat anticlimactic when she quickly found nothing to interest her, and so she returned it to the shelf and picked up the book for 1979, repeating the tedious process until she found what she couldn’t admit to herself that she was looking for, in the 1975 yearbook. There he was, in the Slytherin graduating class of that year, _Antonin Dolohov_.

She still hadn't got rid of the Daily Prophet article; it was upstairs having somehow migrated from the bottom of her school bag to under her pillow. Hermione knew how bad that would look if anyone happened to find it and yet she couldn't bring herself to throw it away. Anytime she tried, her mind would conjure those eyes, so blank and yet so full of intensity and she would be walking away from the bin and tucking the parchment amongst her bedding before she knew what she was doing.

In his school photo, Dolohov looked softer than she had anticipated, but his face still could hardly be described as open. The same dark brown eyes stared off the page but here the corners crinkled and his lips twitched with the hint of a promised smile that never quite materialised. He had the same stillness even back then, but it wasn't threatening, here he looked like a bored teenager. As the photograph shifted one brow would rise questioningly, his head tilting almost imperceptibly to the side, like he was all too aware that she was looking at him. Hermione had expected to feel… more? If that was the right word, when seeing him at a similar age to herself, but she didn't.

Turning her gaze she glanced across the page, next to him in the book was a school photo of Reuben Yaxley, who smirked at the camera, eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth, his arms folded across himself as he rested casually against the side of the frame. She scanned through the remainder of the book, but there were no other pictures of him, of either of them. Hermione glanced around cautiously, and then, before she could ask herself what she was doing, she duplicated the page and pushed it inside her school robes. Immediately realising that she had made her situation worse, she pushed the offending book back into its place and rushed out of the library.

* * *

Hermione had dreaded her next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson since Harry had come back to the common room the night he'd been caught. She knew they would have figured out she was responsible for the signup sheet, if Marietta hadn't just told them outright, and she was certain Umbridge would want payback. For all of the toad’s pontificating about the moralistic high ground of the Ministry Hermione knew a blood supremacist when she saw one. She was _determined_ to follow the same advice she had been giving Harry all year, 'keep your head down and shut up'. However, as fortified as she thought she was, she wasn't prepared for Umbridge. Hermione made a pretty good vicious bitch when the time called for it, but she still had her training wheels compared to the High Inquisitor, who had perfected malevolent before Hermione was even born.

Hermione’s legs struggled to cooperate as she forced herself to walk into the classroom, ignoring the way her stomach rolled as she silently took the seat next to Harry and sat up, back straight and virtually motionless, waiting for instruction, averting her eyes towards the desk.

"Ahem, you may take out your books…"

As the direction began Hermione automatically stretched down by the side of her chair and reached into her bag, it was only as her fingers settled around the spine of her book that she realised her mistake. She heard Umbridge's breath hitch in thinly veiled excitement, and she felt her blood run cold.

"I do believe I hadn't quite finished speaking Miss Granger that was coarse of you, was it not?” Umbridge looked towards Hermione, her eyes almost blazing with maniacal glee as she waggled her quill between her fingers. “I think a week of detentions is in order." Hermione looked her pink-clad tormentor in the eyes. She would show her no fear, the flushed, excited look on the woman’s face made her feel sick, but she refused to make this any more enjoyable for her.

"Yes, professor," she responded, endeavouring to keep her voice firm, however, robotic the tone.

"Excellent, we begin tonight!" Umbridge's grin reminded Hermione of a cartoon cat, her mouth stretched impossibly wide, bearing all of her teeth. She felt Harry tense beside her and she preemptively placed a hand on his thigh and willed him not to make it any worse. For the first time that year he heeded her warning.

* * *

Leaving her detention later that evening Hermione took a few seconds to collect herself. She had managed an hour of repeatedly writing _into_ her skin, gritting her teeth as the increasingly jagged strokes went over and over the same raw indents. She didn't need to look back at her hand, the freshly engraved line; _I must respect my betters_ was just as embedded in her mind. The double meaning was not at all lost on her. The one saving grace of the evening, and her sanity, was that apparently, Umbridge considered her bright enough not to have to explain, in her sickly sweet voice, that by _betters_ she wasn't referring to a student-teacher dynamic. Hermione had kept her mouth shut as much as possible, occasionally biting down hard on her lip to stop 'angry Hermione' from emerging, particularly having to suppress herself from asking if Umbridge was sure she wanted her to ruin her lovely pen with her dirty blood.

Hermione rested against the cool stone of the corridor wall and tried to decide her next move. There was no doubt Harry would be waiting for her to get back to the common room, and with his current rage levels she wished she could conceal her hand, but that was a futile hope. What she wanted was to retreat to her bed, secure the curtains and have a really good cry, but that was out of the question, it would be some time before she would be alone and she simply could not cry on Harry twice in one week. So Hermione spent the walk back to the Tower fortifying herself, she had begun to think she might manage a 'can we talk about this tomorrow Harry?' Without breaking down, when she turned a corner to see Malfoy reclined against the wall.

Hermione was immediately on edge, the fact that he was on his own buoyed her, she was pretty sure if it came to it she could protect herself.

"Good evening Granger,” he drawled with a smirk, “I've been asked by the High Inquisitor to come and ensure you don't get lost on the way back to your Tower." Hermione wasn't taken in by his false politeness, still, she had no interest in making her evening worse, so she nodded and fell into step beside him, though she maintained a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. When they finally reached the hall with her portrait hole, Hermione felt her chest lighten, until his iron hard grip slipped around her right wrist.

Most of the students, when using the blood quill, had obtained scars on their non-dominate hand, simply because whatever you wrote appeared on the opposite hand. Umbridge had something slightly different planned when Hermione entered her room that evening.

_Swallowing back bile she picked up the quill and made to begin writing_

_"Oh no Miss Granger, I would like you to use your other hand," Umbridge called sweetly in between blowing on the full tea cup pressed against her thin lips. Hermione couldn't stop her eyebrows raising in question. "Well, you see this is a very important lesson for you, and I think it would be of most benefit if you, and others, see it every time you raise your wand. Before you perform magic, each and every time."_

_Hermione and fought to keep the bitter tears from her eyes. She breathed out shakily and then locked eyes with Umbridge before purposefully moving the quill from one hand to another._

Draco twisted her wrist to regard the words on the back of her hand, and his face broke out into a nasty little grin, the same grin that she had seen directed at Harry _many_ times over the years. He lifted his wand, and for the first time that evening Hermione panicked, she couldn't grasp hers from its position, strapped to her right arm as Draco was holding it aloft. He muttered a quick spell over her hand, and she gasped as the fresh cuts glowed before deepening, seeping with blood that streamed over the irritated skin.

"A little gift from the High Inquisitor,” he said smugly before roughly pushing her against the wall, “you're not the only one that's been learning new magic on the side, Granger. Murtlap essence can be very pesky, healing these things up before the lesson is _properly learnt_.”

With that he dropped her arm, wiping the hand that had touched her down his trouser leg with a dramatic flourish and walked away casually in the direction of the dungeons. When the sound of his footsteps faded, Hermione slumped to the ground and clutched her hand to her chest, no longer able to stop the tears that she had been holding in all day.

Despite her earlier fears, Harry didn't say anything when he found her. Instead, he wrapped her in a tight hug before gently bandaging her hand, and she didn't cry on him again either. By the time he lifted her from the cold corridor floor, there were no more tears left.

* * *

Following her first detention, Hermione was quiet and withdrawn; she saved all of her defiance for her remaining ‘correctional sessions’ with Umbridge. Which meant the rest of the time she fell prey to feeling a little sorry for herself. She wasn't vain, not as such, but the idea of a permanent scar was not one she relished. Despite her steely resolve when faced with the High Inquisitor, the words she had spoken had eventually permeated, much like the repeated strokes of the quill on the back of her hand. Simply, Umbridge had gotten into her head, Hermione knew she was letting her, but she didn't know how to stop it.

While Hermione sank into herself, things in the castle were getting worse by the day, Umbridge had moved to get rid of Hagrid, and in defensive of him, Professor McGonagall had taken multiple stunning spells to the chest. For a woman of her age the effect could have been lethal, and after being tended to by a distraught Madam Pomfrey she had been moved to St. Mungo's for more intensive treatment. Hermione felt something shatter when she watched her favourite, most respected professor, be stretchered through the floo. Something that had fissured within herself at her first sighting of Harry’s hand, that had cracked during her own detentions was now laying in pieces on the floor of her psyche.

Her Head of House leaving the school grounds worried her, she was the _only_ teacher that Hermione trusted implicitly, and with her gone Umbridge was in total control. Hermione had never quite had the blind faith in Dumbledore that Harry had, too many things had happened while the school was under his care, and after the Chamber opened in their second year, Hermione would never give full credence to his motives.

Hermione was lying on her bed, following the shower that she had to talk herself into, it was Saturday, and she was debating not going further than the common room at all that day when Luna walked through the door to her dorm and dropped next to Hermione on her bed. "You need to get ready and come with me," the blonde said softly, laying her head on Hermione’s pillow and facing her curled up form.

"Do I have to?" Hermione asked, a little taken aback at how weak her voice sounded.

"Yes,” Luna affirmed, “I think you will regret it if you don't." There was no rebuke in her voice, no exasperation, not even a note of plea. Just a request.

Hermione sighed dragging herself up, she dressed quickly, and Luna braided her hair back away from her face, the younger girl was much more patient than Hermione, so the results were always a lot more pleasing. They were making to leave when Luna's hand circled Hermione’s right wrist, and she stilled at the memory, of that touch. Closing her eyes Hermione willed herself to stay calm, _the grip wasn't firm, it wasn't mean_ , but when she felt a small burst of magic settle on her skin, she jumped away from Luna and turned to glare at her.

"Just a small glamour," she said placatingly dropping her head and holding her hands up, Hermione pulled her hand to her face, her heart still racing, turning to the light so she could detect the slight sheen.

"I still _know_ it's there," she uttered quietly.

"Yes, but it doesn't mean you have to see it. We'll work on the hand now, the head will come later," Luna rubbed Hermione’s shoulder softly then carefully took her left hand hauling her from the dorm, straight out of the common room and through the portrait hole. She wasn't sure where Luna was taking her until they ended up in the main corridor off the Great Hall. She looked at Luna questioningly.

"3… 2… 1," Luna muttered.

A whizz sounded from somewhere above them, and Hermione’s eyes scanned the air until a great whoosh, and a blast of wind preceded the Weasley Twins flying overhead on broomsticks. The following firework display was spectacular, and would certainly go down as one of the most dramatic exits from Hogwarts ever. She laughed in spite of herself when an exceptionally large rocket took off and exploded, spelling out ‘POO’ in shimmering, three foot high, glitter letters. The indoor fireworks that had been triggered as they flew off, presumably to face the wrath of Molly, continued for several hours. Umbridge was incensed, screaming at anyone who happened passed her to ‘get the situation under control’ but the professors all claimed they had no idea how to get rid of them. Hermione looked at Professor Flitwick incredulously; surely there was nothing that would baffle him about charm work? When she saw the tiny glint in his eye, she felt momentarily assured that the students were not the only ones fighting back.

Luna walked back with her to Gryffindor Tower, standing around for long was unwise, and at the very least would have meant being commandeered to help with the clear up. When they had managed to get away from any potential eavesdroppers, Luna told her the Twins had left her a small, personal leaving present. Hermione hoped Umbridge would be thrilled with the Niffler in her office.

* * *

Considering the magnitude of scrapes her little group had gotten into before, it was surprising that this was the first time Hermione couldn't come up with a way to get out of their situation. She felt guilt settle on her shoulders, she had been the one that had _insisted_ they get proof following Harry's nightmare, and now they were being held here. If it had been another true vision, time for Sirius was slipping away; she didn't know if Harry would ever forgive her, or if she would ever forgive herself.

From her vantage point, Hermione could see across the whole of Umbridge's office, and it didn't make for good viewing. If the scene weren't so tragic it would have been funny. She, Harry, Neville, Ron, Ginny and Luna were all being held in various awkward angles, restrained by members of the Inquisitorial Squad. Millicent Bulstrode was pinning her up against a wall with her chunky forearm pressed against her neck so hard that Hermione worried she would asphyxiate, even if she didn't choke she was likely to be bruised for the rest of term.

Professor Snape had been and gone. Harry had tried to give him a covert message, but Hermione didn't think any the assembled, held students, trusted him to speak to the Order. Having not got the Veritaserum to question Harry, Umbridge had begun ranting, mostly to herself, sounding increasingly irrational. Hermione was becoming desperate. When Umbridge turned to them, her body now stilled and announced that she would have to use the Cruciatus Curse to 'loosen Harry's tongue' Hermione acted completed on impulse.

"No… You… You can't… the Ministry," Hermione managed to force out, anything more coherent was impossible with her throat so constricted.

"What the Minister doesn't know, won't hurt him," Umbridge replied in her usual tone, her demeanour had calmed now she had found a solution, and Hermione sensed something snap inside herself in response. She had been out of sorts since the DA discovery, but her anger and revulsion cleared the lingering fog. She stopped struggling against Bulstrode and let her body sag against the wall.

_No, no bloody way am I going to stand here, in this fuchsia freak show of an office, being assaulted with my friends, by a bunch of jumped up, cowardly, self-important bastards, with Harry being tortured on the floor by that toad-like nut job, while a load of cross-eyed cat plates look on._

Hermione knew this would probably provoke another crisis of morality later, but for right now her sense of justice shouted louder than anything else, they _needed_ to get out of there, and Umbridge needed to pay. So she summoned all of the upset from the last year and let herself break into body racking sobs.

"No... Harry… We have to… We have to tell her," she cried, drawing her face into a vision of total anguish.

Umbridge looked at her, her squinting eyes alive with excitement, "Millie let her down, please, I think you're hurting her,” she said in a sickly sweet tone, “What was it you wanted to say Hermione, my dear?"

Harry shouted protests but Hermione blocked him out, "We were trying to contact Dumbledore… it's about a weapon… one we were hiding for him," she exclaimed hoarsely, massaging her throat in an attempt to get the words out easier.

Umbridge looked almost undone by delight, "Yes, well done for telling me Hermione, where is the weapon?"

"I will take you to it, but we will need to bring Harry, he needs to be there to activate it," she filed away how easy she just lied for further consideration later.

* * *

Harry and Hermione left the Forbidden Forest at a fast pace, very desirous to get out of there before they came across anyone, or anything, else. She didn't want to think too much about what had just happened; she hadn’t anticipated the Centaurs arrival, she had expected to walk into the forest and find Hagrid's brother, Grawp. There had never been a rest of the plan there hadn't been time, the general idea was to use the distraction and get away. When they had been ambushed by the herd and Umbridge insulted them there was only going to be one outcome, Hermione watched her being dragged away and it settled on her that she was responsible for whatever would happen next to that woman. She hadn't set out for that to arise, hadn't even planned on anything specific happening to Umbridge at all, but she knew she wanted her to suffer and badly.

She didn't feel anything when the woman screamed at them for help, no victory, no remorse, nothing.

_Shattered._

* * *

From the moment of the ambush, and eventual restraining in Umbridge's office, Hermione hadn't had time to think, she had been forced to rely on instinct, and that was more Harry's area of expertise. Following their escape from the forest and meeting up with Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna, who had somehow managed to get away from the Inquisitorial Squad, Luna had the bright idea of flying to the Ministry on the Thestrals, _flying on invisible horses_. Hermione was getting rather sick of thinking ‘this is the worst thing that has ever happened’, on an almost weekly basis. She somehow made it the whole way there, without losing any of her dinner and now they were deep in the bowels of the vast and unfamiliar building in The Department of Mysteries.

The place was a labyrinth, every long corridor looking the same as the last, the lack of light and the dark green tiled walls did nothing to help in the search for the location Harry had seen in his dream. After heading through a room housing time turners of every conceivable size and shape, they opened a door marked 'Hall of Prophecy'.

Harry's demeanour changed instantly and he charged forward in search of his godfather. Hermione walked forward more cautiously; the area was divided by shelving racks as high as the eye could see, with small glowing orbs, with a small scrap of parchment placed in front of their velvety stands each, covered with different names in scratchy… _hang on glowing orbs?_ The memory of discussing Harry's dreams came to the forefront of her mind and an awareness that all was not as it seemed seeped into her bones.

Harry shouted up ahead, and the five of them sped up to meet him. He was standing in an open square junction between racks, pacing back and forth, looking down at the floor tugging at his hair. No one said anything, no one needed to, Hermione looked at Harry, she could see the realisation beginning to form on his face, they had been lured here, _purposefully_.

It was a trap.

They had left school and all of the protection the castle afforded, no one knew they had come here, no one was coming to save them. The sound of footsteps further down one of the aisles echoed around the space, and the students snapped their heads up at the same time as a figure in raven black robes, and a silver Death Eater mask walked towards them. Suddenly Ginny gasped, and turning Hermione saw another robed figure heading towards them, and another and another.

Masks were everywhere.

Harry pulled himself together first, "Form a circle facing out," he whispered urgently, and they all shuffled to comply. Hermione thought she had counted ten masks, but she couldn't be sure. In some ways it didn't matter if there was ten or twenty, they may have been practising defence all year, but that hardly meant they would be any match for experienced Death Eaters. She glanced at Harry, and they shared a look, she nodded letting him know she had his back, she grabbed Luna's hand and squeezed hard before letting go. Showing fear was not going to help.  She would do everything she could to get them out of here alive.

* * *

Standing in the shadows, partly concealed from view, Antonin was unsurprised to see that Harry Potter was not alone in The Department of Mysteries. Gryffindors had always had the ornery habit of turning up on mass, although on closer inspection he spotted that the tiny blonde girl was wearing a Ravenclaw jumper, _how did she get mixed up in all this?_ Casting his eye over the assembled group, he spotted two Weasleys leaving an unidentified, tallish, dark-haired Gryffindor boy and _Her_ . Antonin sucked in a breath. He should have mentally prepared himself for the possibility of her being there, but he had been led to believe, falsely it would seem, that she was smart. He felt his temper rise and then her head turned, and she and Potter shared a look, she nodded her head at him, reassuring him. _No, no you don't. Don't you go encouraging him, you shouldn't even be here!_ He averted his eyes to stop himself from losing control and focused back on the action. Antonin had been gearing up to this for months, and yet now they were there Lucius had been talking for so long he might as well have been sat in the Malfoy dining room, listening to him drone on about the potential threat of half-blood representation in the Wizengamot.

While Lucius pontificated without regard for his audience, Antonin watched the children move from terror to almost looking bored. He could have sworn _She_ rolled her eyes at one point, but he could have just imagined it. Before everyone present could forget themselves entirely and fall asleep Bella interjected herself into proceedings, and the tension promptly returned. He looked back over to _Her… Hermione_ , suddenly with Bella making her presence known Antonin was even more concerned about what would happen that night.

He didn't know what he was going to do, but he felt compelled to help her, to protect her. A task that was almost impossible to do covertly, if anyone present should detect his _interest_ they’d both be dead.

_She_ was even more petite than he had imagined but just as beautiful, even more so really. Her face was small and round with alert brown eyes, her skin glowed with a light natural tan, a spattering of freckles over her button nose. She looked older than she did in the photos that he still carried in his robes. He imagined she must be about fifteen now, which he didn't want to think about too closely.

As Bella cackled her mad taunts at the assembled group Antonin could feel the air change, it was going to start soon. He turned to glance at his fellow Death Eaters, sizing up what direction he wanted to go in. It would have been so much easier if Yax was there, but his partner was needed back at the Malfoy’s, putting together plans for the Ministry. Still weighing his options, Antonin spotted Rodolphus, his shoulders rigid and his eyes looking straight in the direction of Hermione. It was an intense, but not savage gaze, assessing, calculating. Antonin shifted to look at Rabastan whose eyes were flickering almost manically between Rodolphus, Hermione and the little Ravenclaw.

* * *

Antonin lost sight of _Her_ when everyone dispersed. For a bunch of school children, who had foolishly walked into a trap, they were shockingly well organised.

It wasn't until much later that he caught a glimpse of her fighting. Walden McNair had set his sights on the little Ravenclaw, and the brutal wizard shot a fierce hex in the blonde’s direction, with such force her whole body turned, and she was knocked, head first, against the shelves behind. When she collapsed onto the floor her face looked utterly bizarre, blood pouring from her nose and mouth but her expression was so unconcerned. She somehow managed to maintain a shield while she tried to right herself, and from the way she was standing Antonin could tell she had damaged her ankle. At that moment Hermione rounded the corner, he watched as she took in the sight before her and saw the very moment her eyes registered what she was seeing. She pulled herself up and squared her shoulders, rage seeming to roll off her, magic flowing through her curls. She hurled a stupefy at McNair, almost matching the force he would have had. Even after believing all he had heard about her Antonin had still somehow underestimated her, she was magnificent. While he might not have realised her true brilliance, McNair had arrogantly assumed himself superior. The strength of the stunner sent in his direction, coupled with the fact he did not attempt even a weak shield, meant he was knocked ten feet down the aisle.

Hermione spun around to check the blonde witch’s face, her fingers gently tracing  her pale, bloody cheeks as she softly murmured something outside of his hearing. Antonin wanted to speak to her, but he didn't know how to make an approach without scaring her, and he couldn’t be certain of his reaction if she recoiled from him. While he was distracted the tall boy from before came running over, his eyes fell on Hermione, and he looked so relieved to see her that Antonin's chest tightened. He watched the boy as he checked her over, his eyes scanning for any marks before he leant forward and put his hands on either side of her face, right under her ears, his fingers visible in her hair. The propriety hold unsettled Antonin more than he would have thought possible, the boy's face moved closer to _Hers,_ and Antonin couldn't stand it. He bit down on the inside of his mouth until he could taste blood, but neither the shock of the pain or the sudden coppery taste was enough to dispel his ire. He stepped forward, brushing a hand over his face in a jerking movement, so his mask disappeared.

The little tableau of fighters noticed the action immediately, but he barely spared them a glance before he shot a hex at the boy, straight at one of the arms that was still touching _Her_. Unfortunately, it was nothing deadly, just a wordless Confringo but it gave him an enormous amount of pleasure to hear the bone crack. He turned to her, without a clear thought in his mind about what he would say or do, but before he could form a cohesive thought, he noticed dark, aggressive bruising covering almost the whole of her throat.

"What happened to your neck?" He heard himself say, his voice a lot harsher than he intended.

She looked up from her crouched position on the floor to meet his eyes, he considered that she hadn't heard what he asked until she finally reacted, sitting up and whispering, "What?"

The sound may have been muted, but Antonin heard it as clearly as a chiming church bell. He reached forward as if to touch her cheek but then his partner called for him, and there was no time for further conversation, reluctantly, he tore his face away from her confused expression and darted off in a different direction.

* * *

The entire mission seemed to go from poorly planned to farcical unbelievably quickly, that was until he finally managed to corner Potter in the Time Room. Antonin needed to end this now, the longer it went on, the more chance there was of _Her_ getting hurt. When the dark haired boy tripped over a smashed shelving unit, he knew he had got him, knew he could end it and get the hell out of there.

"I've got Po-"

It should have been a triumphant yell, but he was cut off before he could finish his sentence. At first, he couldn't understand what had happened, he spun around in confusion and there _She_ was again. Her hair had broken free from the confines of her braid, there was a cut against the apple of her cheek, her jumper was dishevelled, and her eyes blown wide. She had clearly seen her fair share of fighting, but she still looked so radiant, more so probably, from all the heightened emotion. Their eyes locked again, and he realised what was missing from her expression both now and before, _fear_. Hermione’s expressive face reflected wary caution and curiosity but not horror or disgust.

A noise made Antonin start, and he glanced behind her to see the blonde with the bloody face. Then, without warning, his body went stiff, and he fell straight back on the ground, hard. Potter came to a screeching halt in front of him. Little fucker had hit him with a full body bind. _She_ screamed at Potter to run, then made her way slowly over to his prone form, her features strangely blank as she raised her leg and stamped on his forearm with a force he wouldn't have believed her capable of. "That was for Neville," she spat viciously.

Antonin was incensed. Not only had the tiny witch silenced him but he was also sure his arm was broken. That she had attacked him in retribution for the boy that had _touched_ her churned his gut. He moved his eyes, the only physical reaction he was capable of, glaring at her until he recognised that her open demeanour did not reflect anywhere near the same level of fury as it did earlier, in defence of the Ravenclaw, and he relaxed as much as he could in his current position. Whatever their relationship he felt certain that Hermione did not _love_ the boy. _Neville_ , with his newly crushed bones, had hopefully learnt to keep his hands to himself.

Hermione looked away from him, and he detected a flicker of something in her eyes, _hesitation?_ Her eyes darted around the clearing, _why she was staying there in the open?_ Then he heard her softly murmuring, 'Luna'. Noticing a movement behind her, Antonin lifted his eyes as much as possible till he caught sight of McNair edging towards them, wand raised. She wasn't as aware of her surroundings as she had been earlier and clearly didn't notice him. Inside Antonin was screaming, but it made no difference, pushing at his body with all his might he could feel the bind beginning to lift, forcing his will to draw an end to the spell so hard sweat formed on his brow.

Just as McNair was near the end of the aisle, the bind released and Antonin jumped straight up and without waiting arched his arm, wordlessly sending a dark purple slash through the air. It landed, embedding straight across her chest. As intended.

Time seemed to stop. At first, she didn't move, she simply looked back at him, wide-eyed, blinking several times and then, as if in slow motion, her body slumped. Not waiting for her to hit the floor Antonin turned to face McNair. "Potter went this way," he shouted. As he walked away, he watched from the corner of his eye as the tiny blonde girl came skidding to a stop in the clear area between the shelves and dropped to her knees beside the body.

* * *

As soon as the Order descended Antonin knew it was over, it was over before it had even begun. He knew his Master would be completely furious and as much as the very idea of being sent back to Azkaban threatened to break him, in prison he probably stood a better chance of long-term survival. Before his wand could be taken Antonin pulled an envelope from inside his robes and cast one last spell, with a swirl of light the parchment disappeared.

The Death Eaters were rounded up to one side, magical bindings placed on their wrists. Some of the recently arrived Aurors were arguing about the best way to transport them which left them standing in the room as Healers charged about, giving aid and transporting the wounded. That was when he saw _Her_. Antonin hoped it was still her and not just the lifeless body he had seen on the floor. She was being carried haphazardly by the tiny Ravenclaw, her progress slow. Hermione was in a standing position her arms looped around Luna's neck with what must have been a sticking charm because she was unconscious. The blonde clearly struggled with the weight, but she had her arms curved around Hermione's waist, and although her body shook a little with the effort her face didn't show any sign of strain. He couldn't understand why Luna didn't levitate her, then as he looked closer at the hands that coiled around her middle, he could see how they were clutching at what remained of Hermione's jumper, desperately, as if she could not hold on to her hard enough. Antonin looked into her little ivory face, and he noticed her slowly mouthing the same words over and over again.

"You are going to be okay Hermione, it's going to be ok, we are going to leave here, and someone will know what to do. You are going to be okay..."

_She was pleading_.

As they moved further towards the clearing, close to minutely fluttering veil, Luna's head shot up and she reacted as though there was a threat Antonin could not see. Her posture stiffened and if it was possible her arms around Hermione tightened, her blank face taking on a look of steely resolve. "You will not take her," she whispered.

Antonin was puzzled for half a second then he noticed the direction of her gaze was firmly on the veil. He shook his head, his throat completely blocked and tried to cough to remove the tension in case he had to speak soon. While he pulled himself together other people had spotted the pair. The tall boy, Neville, ran forward screaming her name followed by the werewolf, Lupin.

Commotion began in his own ranks, he noticed the Lestrange brothers in a heated exchange, Rodolphus looked stricken and pale, but Rabastan looked murderous, McNair noticed the cluster of Order members.

"Nice work on the Mudblood Dolohov, didn't recognise that hex, looked unpleasant.” The older wizard grinned as he looked over at the cluster of people now standing around Hermione. “They look a bit sad to have lost one of their pets."

Antonin didn't trust himself to respond, thankfully he was known as a man of few words, so it caused no shock when he simply nodded. He turned to look away, immediately confronted by the red snarling face of Rabastan, who without any warning raised his arm back and punched him squarely in the face.

With both the force and surprise of the blow Antonin was amazed he stayed on his feet. He felt his nose give way to the impact, and he looked up to face his attacker, but Rabastan was already being dragged to the other side of the containment area by his brother. He hissed as he pulled on the end of his nose to straighten it back out, the last thing he needed was to let it set broken. He didn't know what the fuck was going on with those two, but he would, he recovered in time to see the little Order cluster preparing to apparate. The Ravenclaw insisted on going on with _Her_ and clutching her hand to her chest as they disappeared with a pop.

* * *

Hours later and Antonin was back in the windowless cell. He had only been out a matter of months, but he couldn't focus on the reality of his reincarnation, in his mind images turned on a loop, images of _Her_. Seeing her for the first time, seeing her fight, the moment their eyes locked, her voice, her not being afraid, her… her falling, her being dragged and her disappearing with a pop.

When his mind had turned over the same reel for what felt like an infinite amount of time he wondered if they would both live long enough for him to get a chance to explain.

If he got a chance would he have an opportunity?

If he had an opportunity would she listen long enough to forgive him?


	6. Chapter 6

Awareness tingled at the edges of her senses, and at length, Hermione opened her eyes. She blinked several times in an attempt to clear away the fog that lingered over her vision. With a start, she realised that she didn't recognise her surroundings. Her heart accelerated, pumping in her chest so fast that she could hear the rhythm in her ears. Her breath quickened, deep pants trying to stave off the panic that was coursing through her blood. Her body was surging with adrenaline, and her mind couldn't keep up. Hermione tried to reach for her wand, but her body protested.

She blinked.

The room was white, not the murky green she remembered from before her eyes closed. _She wasn’t at the Ministry anymore_ . Wherever she was it was illuminated by failing daylight, _how had she gotten here? How many hours had passed?_ Hermione let her head fall back, and that's when she saw the vaulted ceiling, familiarity cooled the white hot grip of anxiety, she was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. She was alive.

Hermione willed her wild heart rate to slow down further, the battle must be over, she was not in danger. Her chest spiked again, _what about everybody else?_ She forced her head to turn left, though her neck didn't seem to want to comply, she stilled for a second, terrified that something serious was wrong, then she remembered, Millicent Bulstrode’s arm forced against her windpipe. She raised her fingers to probe at the sensitive flesh gently. She saw a flash of intense brown eyes regarding her neck, with a dangerous expression, but it was gone before she could recall it properly.

Neville was lying in the bed next to hers. They must have pushed the cots closer together as there was barely a gap between them. He was asleep; his body curled up to face her, it seemed strange to see him like that, _too intimate maybe?_ He had some mottled bruising over one eye, but he appeared to be ok, he looked whole at least. Hermione remembered the curse to his arm and another memory burst into her mind, the same brown eyes, this time sparking with rage, a mouth set in a firm, grim line. It was all just snippets, like a grainy old movie, or a jigsaw without all of the pieces, a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to finish.

She turned, compelling her head to move to an angle to see Neville’s arm. It was laying over the covers of his bed, resting against his torso. It did not appear to be bound; _maybe the bones had already been regrown?_ _How long had she been there? How long had she been asleep?_

Hermione twisted onto her other side, Ron was there, and his cot had also been pushed closer. He was so pale his face was almost the same colour as the sterile, white hospital sheets, his freckles so much more pronounced, and dark circles were visible under his eyes. His hospital pyjamas were open at the neck and revealed a thick layer of gauze that must have been wound around his chest. The sight of his wounded rib cage triggered a flood of memories as sudden as if a light had been turned on in her mind, her injury, the events before she blacked out, _Dolohov_. Again she had to focus on regulating her breathing to stop her heart from beating out of her chest. She needed to get up, to check her injuries, to find out where Luna and Harry were.

Hermione moved her right palm to press flat on the bed, pushing down onto the spongy surface to force herself to sit herself up, her body didn't seem completely unresponsive just lethargic and sore. She went to repeat the action with her right hand and realised she couldn't, her hand felt like it was in a vice, she wasn't sure how she hadn't noticed the pressure before. Hermione shuffled as much as possible so that she could see her hand and when she looked down she spotted a small shape at the end of the bed.

Luna was bent up in an impossibly cramped mass, Crookshanks coiled into her arms. She had a small, soft, pale blue throw over the top of her, and mismatched socks poked out from the end of the blanket. One of her arms was stuck out awkwardly, and that was what had gripped Hermione's right hand. Hermione had no idea Luna had such a tight grip, or how she had managed to maintain it while apparently fast asleep.

She resettled herself against the pillows and swept her eyes around the room, the movement easier from this vantage point. She suddenly understood the formation; she was covered from all sides, they had been protecting her. She squeezed Luna's delicate hand gently and watched as her eyes flickered dreamily before suddenly opening wide, a smile formed on her lips.

"I knew you would come back."

* * *

After jumping up quickly, disturbing Crookshanks in the process, Luna carefully gave Hermione a massive hug, before hopping down from the cot to wake Madam Pomfrey. Hours passed in a whirlwind of visitors to the Hospital Wing, everyone wanting to reassure themselves that she was ok. When Hermione asked about her wound, the nurse responded that she would talk to her later, once it had calmed down.

At some point, Neville woke up from all the commotion going on around them, and when his eyes fell on Hermione, who was sat up being bullied into eating porridge by Luna, his whole face lit up with a beatific smile. "I'm so glad you're awake Hermione, you gave us all a bit of a scare," he said softly as he sat against the pillows of his cot.

Hermione leant forward to grasp his hand with hers. "Thank you; it's good to be awake again, how are you? How's your arm?" She asked eagerly, keen to be reassured that he looked as well, as undamaged, as he appeared.

"I'm not too bad, had to regrow the bone which was horrible,” he shuddered, “I could probably have gone back to the Tower yesterday," he admitted.

"Why didn't you? It couldn't have been much fun hanging around here," Hermione inquired as Luna prodded at her mouth with a full spoon, and she tried not to scowl at her dogged determination.

Neville blushed, a very dark pink shade creeping across his cheeks, dropping his eyes to focus on their joined hands. "I… I wanted to stay here… until… until you woke up," he coughed and shook his head a little, "I thought if I was just a visitor I might not be told when you came to. I knew if I was here I, I would hear soonest."

Hermione clutched his hand softly to reassure him. "Thank you, for staying I mean, when I woke up I was so afraid, thinking I was still there, in the Ministry, seeing the beds pulled over it was like having guards."

"You're welcome," he replied, squeezing her hand gently. He didn't move to let go and Hermione, feeling in need of the comfort and safety his touch afforded, didn't either.

* * *

Once the day's medication had been distributed, and Ron and Neville had been reassured, several times, that she was _very much alive,_ only tired and sore, the patients fell back to sleep for the afternoon. Her charge taken care of, Luna went to her dorm to shower and change, she had not left Hermione's side, hardly left her bed, for two days, much to Madam Pomfrey's chagrin.

Harry entered through the Hospital Wing doors not long after Ron's snores had reduced to tiny sighs and Hermione immediately woke at the creaking of wood, snapping her face to the entrance. Her friend looked terrible. She tracked his progress as he moved towards her bed, dropping into the comfortable chair that had been put there for the visitors that afternoon. Through a series of false starts and long pauses, he told her about Sirius, and her heart broke for him. As guilty as Hermione felt for not being there when he needed her, a small voice whispered that she was relieved she hadn’t seen the last heir of the House of Black fall through the veil. They had their differences over the years, but she had never been blind to the real man underneath the hurt. He had so much potential, so much vitality hidden under shadows, and now the world, they, would never get to see it. Such a monumental waste.

Hermione kept herself quiet as Harry spoke, his expression was frighteningly blank. Harry had clung to the dream of building his relationship and eventually living with his godfather, since the moment they had emerged from the Shrieking Shack in their third year. The knowledge that he had family that cared for him after the life he'd had was almost all-consuming and now…. Now Sirius was gone, and Harry was alone again. As her friend’s broken face looked up at her, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, Hermione mentally added ‘Bellatrix Lestrange’ to a list she had been carrying in her head since the first year. She didn't know how yet, but she would make her pay for this.

When Harry had talked himself out, they sat silently for a while, until without speaking he stood from the chair, lifted the edge of her covers and climbed into the bed next to her, his arms pulled around her tightly and he kissed her forehead.

"We all thought you were gone Hermione, I was so scared, it would have been all my fault,” he whispered as though he were admitting a terrible secret amongst her curls, his voice raw with too much emotion.

“It was not your fault Harry, you went to protect Sirius, and we went for you. You would have come for me; it’s not your fault.” She soothed him the best she could, repeating comforting words over and over until his breathing evened. Harry scooted further down, resting his head on her shoulder and Hermione moved her fingers through his hair until he fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

An hour or so later, Madam Pomfrey came out of her office and roused Neville, informing him that he now _had_ to go back to the Tower. He was physically fine, apart from a few lingering cuts and bruises, and now Hermione was awake he was seemingly out of protests. He kissed her on the cheek and promised he would come by tomorrow, his eyes lingering on Harry's sleeping form for a second, he opened his mouth to speak but the Hospital Wing doors swung open again, and Luna came in, wearing dark blue pyjamas covered in stars, with her school robe thrown over the top. Ignoring everyone present, she jumped onto the end of Hermione's bed and began, settling herself with a blanket and some pillows. Neville seemed to shake the persistent thought he was going to vocalise and instead repeated his promise to visit the next day and left the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey went to check on Ron, who was still fast asleep. Whatever the eerie brain had done when it attached to his chest it was no longer life threatening, but the potions he had to take meant that he needed a lot of sleep. When the matron finally came to Hermione's bed and saw Harry curled up next to her, she sniffed as if she would make a comment, but paused when she noticed the dry tear tracks down his face. Instead, she raised her wand as if she would levitate him but Hermione, sensing that might be her course of action, gripped him tighter before shaking her head as violently as she dared, so as not to wake him. She wouldn’t risk disturbing his sleep, _who knew when he had last slept?_

Luna had retaken her vigil at the end of Hermione’s bed, and when the nurse suggested she move, the blonde looked at her like she didn't understand plain English, and carried on petting Crookshanks who had returned from wherever he had hidden for most of the day, most likely the kitchens. The nurse sighed though Hermione was sure if she had been _concerned_ she would have insisted they all move.

"So Hermione, I'm sure you have questions?" she began.

"Yes,” she whispered, rolling herself slowly from Harry and drawing the covers around his shoulders, till she could sit up on the other side of the bed. “What was the curse he used? What did it do? Are their lasting effects? And," she swallowed, "is their scaring?" Hermione felt stupid for caring, she wasn’t generally consumed by vanity, but this was more than that. The longer she was awake, the more she remembered. She could see the flash of purple light in her mind, remember the feeling of the curse penetrating her chest, _how far it had gone?_ She was sure the scar would cover the whole of her torso. One of her best friends was living proof that curse scarring was not easily fixable, even by magical means.

"I will tell you what I can,” the nurse replied, moving to Hermione’s side of the bed. “When you were first brought here from the Ministry you were totally unconscious and remained unresponsive no matter what we tried. Miss Lovegood told us what she could about your injuries, but she had not seen the attack, only the after effects. The spell was not one any of us recognised. For the first hours of your care we investigated the mark, it started at your collarbone, on the right side of your torso, and continued down to your left hip." Hermione tried to force down the tears that were threatening. Luna moved knowingly and shuffled so that she was sitting almost across her legs. Crookshanks stalked from Luna's lap into Hermione's, sitting up perfectly straight on high alert, as if he was on guard for potential threats. "Miss Granger, being upset is perfectly reasonable, you have been through a great deal for someone your age. Can I continue?" The nurse asked kindly.

"Yes, please do Madam Pomfrey," she urged, despite her thin voice.

"Well, as I was saying, the curse mark was significant, and it emitted a considerable heat, there was nothing we could do to curtail it. However, on further inspection, the curse did not seem to have any negative impact on your body."

"What? That doesn't make any sense?" Hermione interjected, brow furrowed.

"When is a curse not a curse?” The matron responded with a shrug, as she leafed through the charts on Hermione’s bed. “That's what I kept thinking to myself,” she sighed as she placed a small comment against the papers before returning them. “We suspected that the spell would be designed to have an impact on your internal organs, but all the diagnostics that we ran came back fine. As far as we could tell, you were just asleep. There was nothing we could do but monitor the situation. Then, on the second day, I went to redress your bandages, and there had been a change, the mark had begun to diminish. Before it had started at your collarbone and now began in the middle of your chest."

"Did the mark continue to reduce?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Let me show you,” Madam Pomfrey suggested, getting to her feet, “Miss Lovegood I don't suppose there is any point in me applying for you to leave?" she asked tersely.

"No, I don't believe so Madam Pomfrey," Luna answered politely.

The nurse removed the bindings on Hermione's chest, and instead of the purple mark cutting her open as she had expected, there was a blue-tinged line that ran from her hip to her belly button. It was still large, and the brightness of the colour stuck out against her skin, but it was nowhere near as bad as she had been anticipating. It was almost smooth, not puckered or rough looking at all, it was almost like someone had drawn on her flesh with a vibrant felt tip pen. Hermione didn't understand it. Antonin Dolohov was clearly not a man to be trifled with; she had seen his face when he hexed Neville, his reaction when her friend’s arm had given an audible crack, _he had enjoyed it_ . She hadn't understood his expression at the time, but she thought she did now. She had stamped on his arm; she had realised immediately afterwards that that had been a particularly stupid move, in a night of stupid moves, _why not just kill her?_

"I don't understand Madam Pomfrey, is there any chance of delayed effect, something lying dormant perhaps that will kick in later?" That would have made sense, a sick curse that made the victim _feel_ like they were getting a reprieve only to fall fatally ill once more.

"There is no evidence of that,” the nurse sighed, “I do not know what to tell you, Hermione, we are completely stumped. Apart from exhaustion, your body shows no other sign of damage. I would like to keep you in for a few more days to monitor you. You may not have any lasting damage but you are fragile, and it will be some time before you feel back to normal."

“Okay,” Hermione conceded, “ have one more question if that's ok?”

“Of course, dear,” Madam Pomfrey replied as she put the blankets back around her patient.

“You said ‘we’, was there someone else helping when I was brought in?”

“Yes, Professor Snape,” Madam Pomfrey replied absently, “he assists with some of the more complex cases as he has a Master in Potions as well as having a more in-depth knowledge of offensive magic than I do.” Hermione was conscious her mouth was gaping open and shut like a fish, but she wasn't sure how to articulate her surprise. Madam Pomfrey just smiled knowingly at her before leaving for her office.

Hermione filed away her new knowledge, she had other things to focus on, she turned to Luna; "He was silenced when he did it, Dolohov I mean, do you think that could have changed the nature of the curse he sent?"

Luna looked at her unblinking, "I would be surprised if it didn't, but I do not believe that was his intention."

"Well, what do you believe, if you-"

"Not here," Luna whispered, and Hermione nodded though her mind was far from satisfied, _what could Luna know that she wouldn't discuss in the Hospital Wing?_ Hermione wanted to interrogate her, but she knew Luna wouldn't react to that, besides, she was already feeling the pull of sleep, she settled down further in the bed. Images flashed before her eyes, all of _Him… Antonin Dolohov_ . She tried to picture his face as he sent the curse at her, _had he been savage with anger, or cruel and smug?_ She couldn't recall an image. She finally slipped into a fitful sleep, her dreams full of watchful brown eyes and blinding lights.

* * *

After more rest and recuperation Ron was deemed well enough to leave the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey was still insistent that Hermione stayed, for at least one more day, and all of her protests fell on seemingly deaf ears. The nurse had, however, convinced Luna to begin sleeping in her dorm again, but only under _extreme_ duress.

Harry was still struggling. The closer they came to the end of the term the more he regressed into himself, Hermione knew what was taunting him, he had been anticipating a very different kind of summer this year. Spending time with Sirius and Professor Lupin, hearing stories about his parents that would allow him to flesh out their likenesses from the thin impressions he had so far. All of it occurring in the sunshine, far, far away from the shadow of the Dursley’s and their negligence. He was still sleeping in the Hospital Wing, there had been no more tears, or outpourings of emotion, but he came in each evening and climbed in next to her. Madam Pomfrey had tried to move him to an empty bed a few times, but whenever she came back out in the morning, he would be back in with Hermione, so she had long since given up.

Harry had just settled facing towards her, with his eyes closed, when Professor Snape entered the Hospital Wing. The Potions Master was carrying a hand full of phials, and Hermione assumed he was restocking the healing potions, the last few days must have made a substantial dent in the stock. He moved as if to approach her, then stilled, almost comically, as he spotted Harry's messy mop of hair over her covers, and his previously blank expression was replaced by a more familiar sneer before he moved towards the corner of the room. Hermione’s first instinct was to ignore his presence, allowing him to get away and let the moment pass. She had never been in much of a rush to begin a conversation with her disapproving professor, not since the first year when she had tried every conceivable ploy to gain his favour. But she knew she had to try.

“Sir,” she whispered, the faint sound echoing around the empty space. His progress halted, but he didn't turn around, she debated letting him carry on as if she hadn't spoken at all, but she knew that would eat away at her. Hermione resolved that with his back facing away from her it would be easier to find the words. “I wanted to thank you, for helping with my injury; Madam Pomfrey said you offered a lot of assistance.”

He turned then, ever so slightly, just enough for Hermione to make out the side of his face, Professor Snape nodded, almost imperceptibly, before walking off to the cabinet filled with phials in the far corner. She knew there would be no further conversation. There was no need for it.

Hermione had started to read a book when the doors swung open again, this time Dumbledore and Professor Lupin entered, both coming to stand in front of her bed. Professor Lupin's eyes looked red-rimmed, and she realised just how deeply the loss of Sirius must have affected him. She didn't know how she would cope in his situation, watching all of her friends die, being the last one left, and still having to sum up the energy to fight. "How is he?" the tired man asked, his moist gaze falling on the dark mop of hair at her elbow, his voice not much more than a rasp.

"Tired and broken, it's been a challenging year, the worst one yet," Hermione replied, and Lupin nodded, he was silent, and his eyes looked pained. She wanted to offer some words of comfort, but she was feeling defeated by the magnitude of sorrow that seemed to permeate the air around them. "He will always have people to protect him professor and care for him," she managed finally, it was a paltry effort, but Lupin nodded again, acknowledging her attempt before he slumped into the chair by the side of her bed. Hermione's eyes turned away from him, he was agonising to look at, and she’d had her fill of pain that year. It was her job to take care of them all, to try to carry their loads, but this year, everyone else's weight on top of her own had made her feel like she was sinking.

The physical marks they had endured would fade, but she didn't think any of them would ever be the same again.

"Miss Granger, I do hope you are feeling better?" Dumbledore said, and Hermione instantly felt more tired. She didn't want to talk around in circles with the headmaster right now.

"Yes thank you, professor, I’m feeling a lot better," she replied tonelessly.

"Good, I am glad. I wanted to speak to you tonight as I believe I can set your mind at ease over a few things." Hermione straightened, _was this it? Did he know about Dolohov's curse? Why he did it? What it meant?_

"You will be pleased to hear that we retrieved Professor Umbridge from the Forbidden Forest, the day after you got back from the Ministry. She was somewhat, _worse for wear,_ but is now being cared for in St Mungo's." Hermione said nothing, mainly through surprise, it came as something of a shock to discover that she had completely forgotten about Umbridge, and more so that she realised she didn't care what had happened to the High Inquisitor. Hermione had expected to feel terrible afterwards, to judge herself horribly, but there was nothing there. _What was happening to her?_ Misinterpreting the apprehension on her face, Dumbledore continued, "Please do not fear, we have smoothed everything over, there will be no reprisals from the Ministry, or Hogwarts."

She turned to look at him incredulously, "What about reprisals for her professor?"

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore began, his twinkle fading slightly but Hermione ignored him.

"What about reprisals _for_ _her_? For torturing students as young as eleven with _illegal_ punishments, for targeting Harry _all year_ , making comments publicly about his mental state, for abusing her power and allowing a bunch of entitled kids to go around taking points from Muggleborns for being Mudbloods." She rattled off her list, her voice never rising beyond normal volume but her tone was arctic. The silence that followed was deafening. Hermione willed her breathing to calm down.

"Don't worry headmaster my question was _very much rhetorical,_ if you would excuse me, I think I need to go back to sleep," she finished with false politeness. Dumbledore looked at her intently for a moment, but he ventured to say no more, at length he drew himself up with the air of a King and left the Hospital Wing, Lupin in his wake. When the doors finally closed behind them, Hermione breathed out a sigh of relief.

Staring after the departed men, Professor Snape's voice made Hermione start, "I told the Order Miss Granger, as soon as I left her office." The door swung closed once again, and Hermione sank further into the bed, she had no idea why Professor Snape had felt the need to reveal that, but she didn't have the energy to ponder it further. Dealing with Slytherin men was so much more complicated than her Gryffindor boys, they might have been annoying, and forgotten she was a girl from time to time, but at least she always knew the motivations behind their actions, mainly because they couldn't hide it very well, but nevertheless.

* * *

When the term eventually ended, Hermione felt an almost overwhelming relief. She was tired, bone tired, and she needed time to process everything that had happened, away from all of the others. Time alone was vital, so she could let herself break, properly, thoroughly, before piecing herself back together to face the trials that were no doubt in store for them next year. She packed up her things gladly and rejoiced when she was leant back in the quiet carriage on the Express. Luna, Neville and Ginny had joined the trio in the compartment, and though the mood was distinctly sombre, Hermione was trying her best to clutch onto a thin slither of positivity. She would always look back on this year, painful and dangerous as it had been, as the year that she had made more friends, _good friends_. Unexpectedly those friendships had strengthened her relationships with Harry and Ron, by not relying on them quite so much, they gave each other more space. She knew they both appreciated her, but her mum had been right, girls did mature faster than boys at her age, and despite Luna and Ginny being in the year below, both had been a comfort and a source of unwavering support.

Luna was sat next to her, reading the latest edition of The Quibbler, upside down, and Hermione had her glittery pink Spectrespecs pushed back on her head, holding her frizzy hair back, while she read Persuasion, she had lifted her self-imposed Austen ban, but only for the journey. When she happened to glance over at Ron she realised something else, she wasn't waiting for his declaration anymore. Hermione wasn't sure when it had happened, but the butterflies had gone. She might have expected to feel sad, but as it was, she only registered relief.

Either unaware of the mood, or purposefully ignoring it, Luna was in impossibly high spirits. Her dad had been approached by the Daily Prophet, after the events in the Department of Mysteries, to buy the rights to The Quibbler article detailing Voldemort's return. They were using the money to go to Sweden, a country they had identified as having the ‘perfect conditions’ for a colony of Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Hermione and Luna had arranged days ago that she would go to stay with the Lovegoods towards the end of the summer and Hermione was excited but nervous, she had never been to a magical home, except for the Burrow but Luna had been insistent. She had been planning to spend the last two weeks with the Weasley's, and as Luna pointed out, one day in a _less inhabited_ house would probably be welcome.

 

* * *

 

The summer break, so far, had been everything Hermione had wanted, needed and more. Her parents surprised her with a trip to Rhodes, and they had gone for over a week at the start of holidays. Though they had apparently picked up on her hints to travel to a warm country, Hermione was apprehensive, her new scar had faded enough to cover with a weak glamour, but she didn't have access to her magic while away from school. She settled for wearing a one piece swimsuit whenever they were beach bound throughout the entire trip, to prevent her parents from asking difficult questions about the fading blue mark.

Hermione spent her time on the beach, or in the local markets, as well as dragging her parents to every ancient ruin and museum the island had to offer. When they got back, Hermione spent as much time as possible enjoying the Muggle world and doing Muggle things with her parents. She played scrabble with her dad, contentedly arguing with each other over who was cheating, watched nature documentaries with her mum, and helped out in her father's garden. She made biscuits that tasted great but looked awful, and she even let her mum take her clothes shopping. Jean Granger had insisted that Hermione did not have to wear jeans and trainers ‘all the time’ and instead brought her tailored but comfortable trousers and ballet pumps. Hermione protested that Scotland in the winter was not a place for shoes like that, but her mum ignored her complaining with a determination that Ron would have been impressed by.

As well as devoting herself to her parents Hermione spoke to her friends regularly. For the first time since she had attended school she received regular post, and while her mum had never quite settled to owls, Hermione could see how the increase in communications made her happy. Not that the uptick surprised her, Harry had never been able to contact her from Privet Drive, she would frequently hear from him when he got to the Burrow. Ron had never been much of a letter writer, however, with fewer of his siblings living at home he did send a couple of lines, once a week, mainly requesting homework help. She heard from Luna every few days, her search in Sweden had, so far, been unsuccessful, but the blonde and her father remained typically confident. Creature sighting or not it was evident from her excited and thoughtful notes that she was enjoying the time away.

Neville had also written a few times, Hermione had often wondered what his summers must have been like, with his austere grandmother. With his last letter, he had sent a plant, a small, sturdy, green clipping that made her smile. In one of their study sessions, they had discussed the viability of growing magical varieties in a Muggle environment, and he was clearly keen to have a go. So he sent the cutting and instructions, and Hermione had coerced her dad into releasing a small section of his vegetable patch. He had agreed although went on, at length, about his concerns for the potential of cross contamination into his cabbages.

All in all Hermione’s summer was perfect, but even so, she never forgot about the looming threat. When night rolled around, and her parents had gone to sleep she would dream of the Department of Mysteries, the multiple shining silver masks appearing from the shadows, raging spell fire, and Luna's bloody face. When she would start awake, she would think over what she would have to do. She wasn't safe, she may never have been, but being at the Ministry that day would have painted a target on her back. These were the realities of war. While they had been at school the peril had been more abstract, she was protected by teachers and her friends. Now, after facing the Death Eaters, Hermione realised the weight of her youth and inexperience. She knew she could not protect her parents. Help was not forthcoming from the Order; she wasn't sure she could trust Dumbledore, she needed to make her own plans. Her parents wouldn't just leave if she asked, and even if they would have done, it probably would not have been enough to keep them safe. It only left one option in Hermione's mind, but she wasn’t sure she could do it. She resolved to start making plans but take no action until she had considered _every_ available alternative.

 

* * *

 

When Harry made it to the Burrow, as she had expected Hermione received a joint letter from him and Ron, no doubt prompted by Mrs Weasley, inviting her to got to Diagon Alley with them, to shop for school supplies in three days. Hermione immediately contacted Luna, and they made plans for her friend to attend, and for Hermione to spend the following evening at her house.

When she stumbled through the floo in the Leaky Cauldron Luna was already waiting for her. The girls happily exchanged holiday stories, and Luna talked about Sweden so animatedly she was barely drawing in a breath. After waiting for what felt like an age a cluster of ginger heads appeared, and the gaggle of Weasley's entered into the previously quiet pub. Molly wasted no time in making a bee-line for Hermione, complaining about her weight and that she had not been over to visit yet that summer. Hermione smiled at the familiar clucking and was largely happy to remain silent while Molly exhausted all of her pent up mothering.

Once they had all greeted each other, they left the pub and went through the brick entrance into the alley. Suddenly where there had been happy chaos, there was now stunned silence. Diagon Alley was almost unrecognisable. Gone was the sunbathed cobble street with shop windows displaying curiosities. Many of the shops were now closed, heavy boards nailed haphazardly across the frontages. The road itself seemed darker, people that were walking passed kept their heads down, moving with purpose and without greeting each other.

Luna slid her hand into Hermione's, and after several minutes of inaction Molly walked to the front of the group and began dishing out instructions like a drill serjeant. They were sent off in pairs to get everything done quickly; there would be no hanging around for an ice cream at Florean Fortescue's today. Luna and Hermione dispatched their to-do list swiftly, going from Flourish and Blotts to the Apothecary without delay. As Molly had instructed, they headed to the Twins’ store once they were done.

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was the only bright spot in the otherwise lifeless street. Hermione mused that the inside of the store was what it might be like to live inside the heads of the Twins. It was incredibly cluttered, everything was loud, bright or both, everything clashed, _and it was brilliant._

Hermione moved around the deliberate anarchy, idly picking up things and reading the witty instructions on the packaging. Some of the magic displayed was staggering, particularly the line of defensive products. The charmed objects showed, as she had known for a long time, that there was a lot more than met the eye about the Twins. They were as concerned about the war as everyone else, for all their jokes, they were just going about it in their way. As if thinking about them had somehow conjured them into existence they appeared before her.

"Well, look who it is," Fred began, pulling Hermione into a hug before quickly releasing her and pushing her in the direction of his brother.

"Welcome to the store Granger; it's a pleasure to have you here."

"In fact, you're just the woman we wanted to see."

"Oh yes, and why's that?" Hermione turned to face them, they were wearing some of the most garish robes she had ever seen, but somehow it worked for them.

"We've been ruminating on some of our next developments," George whispered conspiratorially.

"And remembering some of your finer bits of magic over the years," Fred winked.

"We were wondering if you might fancy consulting with us for a bit?"

"Freelance so to speak."

"I don't know, what with N.E.W.T. level classes and-" she protested.

"It wouldn't take up much time," they said in unison, cutting off her argument.

"A few owls a month, a tiny bit of assistance," Fred tried, attempting to reassure her concerns.

"It wouldn't be taxing, a simple case of bringing your brain to the table."

"I'll do it, but I want something in return," she smiled sweetly at them, and they gave her matching concerned expressions. She leant in and named her terms. The twins exchanged a familiar glance; then both broke into matching wide grins

"You drive a hard bargain, Granger,”

"But we think we can agree to that."

* * *

While Luna and Hermione were scowling despairingly at the garish stand of love potion related products, Harry and Ron came crashing into the store and began breathlessly recounting how they had seen Draco and his mother in Madam Malkin's. The pale boy had apparently been stood on the dress stool and had flinched when the lady serving them had moved to work on his forearm. Hermione snorted, and Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Well, if there's nothing to it, why would he react like that?" he asked accusingly.

"I don't know Harry, maybe because someone stuck a pin in his arm?" she replied exasperated.

"It was a bigger wince than that," he protested hotly.

"Really Harry? When Buckbeak _scratched_ Malfoy in the third year he wore a bandage, _complete with sling_ , for a month. Then he tried to have him executed. You should be less concerned about Draco, and start worrying about the fate of the poor shop girl that's probably about to be put to death for harming him in front of his mother."

Harry opened his mouth, the look on his face suggesting that he did not care for Hermione's tone, but he was cut off from speaking by Luna, who began waving her arms frantically over his head. "What the hell?" He shouted taking a jerking step back from her.

"Sorry Harry, I'm trying to disturb the Wrackspurts," she replied, her eyes scanning the air around him.

Ron jumped about a meter in the air. "Wrackspurts, what's a wrackspurt? They're not crawly are they?"

"They're invisible,” Luna replied absently, “they get into your brain and make it all go fuzzy, it seems they are affecting Harry, I thought I could feel one around her earlier." Harry looked utterly enraged by this point, and Hermione bit down hard on her lip to stop herself from laughing.

"Anyway,” he said firmly, “ _we_ thought it was suspicious, so we followed him. He went down Knockturn Alley, into Borgin  & Burkes and asked about a broken Vanishing Cabinet."

Hermione sighed, "Look, Harry, I know you don’t like him, and I get it, but I really can't see Malfoy being a Death Eater. What could Voldemort possibly want with a sixteen-year-old boy?” Harry made to speak but Hermione held up her hands, she wasn't done. “Yes, it's suspicious, virtually everything Malfoy ever does is dubious. Why don't we keep an eye on it, see what happens when term starts? We don't want this ending with you obsessed like you were in the second year, convinced he was the heir of Slytherin."

"But Mione..." Harry’s protests were once again cut off n by Luna resuming her arm waving and this time Hermione didn't suppress her laughter.

* * *

By prior arrangement, the girls headed back to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Luna's dad. Hermione wasn't sure to expect, the only other time she'd been invited to meet a friend's parents was when she had met the Weasley's, and there were so many of them it didn't matter if you ran out of conversation. When she had visited with them the first time it was with Harry, and he had commanded so much attention it was easy for her to slip behind him at intervals for a little break.  

Walking into the pub, it was easy to spot Xenophilius Lovegood, even considering Hermione had never met him before; he was a tall man, with broad shoulders and pale blond hair that was almost the same length as Luna's. He was talking in an animated fashion to Mr Weasley, his face open and exuberant the entire time. Even if she hadn't recognised him from his features and characteristics, his clothes would have done it. Mr Lovegood’s robes were a vibrant purple with what, at first glance, looked like fairly sensible tan shoes until you noticed the lime green laces poking out from the bottom of his trousers. He seemed like a fairy-tale 'all that was good' version of Lucius Malfoy.

Xenophilius turned towards the noise as they entered, and his features warmed even further as his eyes fell on his daughter.

"Hello little flower, how was the shopping?" he asked as he beamed at her.

"It was good thank you, Daddy, apart from an unfortunate outbreak of Wrackspurts. Harry is quite infested," Luna replied thoughtfully.

"I dare say he would be my dear, it's been a difficult couple of years for him, and you know how they can sniff out that sort of thing." As Luna nodded sagely her father turned to face Hermione, "and you must be Hermione. It's a pleasure to meet you, a real pleasure, I feel like I already know you to some extent from my little Luna's letters," he said brightly as he shook her hand.

"Thank you, Mr Lovegood it's a pleasure to meet you too."

"Oh, please, none of that, you will be staying in our home you must call me Xeno, but anyway, enough chatting, we should be off. Hermione, we thought it would be best that I take you both via side along apparition rather than the floo. We like to start the tour from the outside for new visitors."

Hermione nodded hastily to the offered plan and then said a quick goodbye to the Weasleys, she would see them in a few days. Xeno gripped her hand and held Luna's in his other and then they were being sucked through space.

Hermione landed unsteadily but did not fall as Mr Lovegood's grip on her hand steadied her. Once she had righted herself and momentarily stilled to allow the rolling nausea to subside, she looked around.

The Lovegood's home was perched on top of a green hill covered in daffodils. The building itself basked in sunshine and was shaped like a giant rook from a chess set.

"We call it the castle," Luna said smiling.

"It's amazing!" Hermione said truthfully.

The merry band of three walked towards the house through a waist high gate that was covered in various, seemingly homemade signs of all shapes and sizes. Hermione’s eyes scanned a few as they walked passed 'Editor of The Quibbler', 'Please be mindful of the carnivorous plants'. As the outside had suggested all of the rooms were completely circular, with an annular wrought iron staircase in the middle. The Lovegood home was bright and filled with clashing colours, soft furnishings and odd objects littered all over the sides. It suited its inhabitants perfectly. In the same way, Hermione’s parents seemed so well adapted to their suburban home with its well-manicured garden and the Weasley’s fitted into the ramshackle add on brickwork of the Burrow.  

Once a tour had been offered and excitedly undertaken the afternoon passed peacefully with a lot of laughter. Spending this alone time with her friend Hermione could see the parallels in how she and Luna had grown up. Sure their parents were very _different_ people, but their parenting styles were similar. Xeno idolised his daughter, and the same lively debates happened over the dinner table here as occurred in her own home, though the topics of conversation were wholly separate. Well, that and the fact that the Lovegood's almost fell over each other to agree, whereas in the Granger home, debate battle lines were drawn deep, and they argued mercilessly.

When Luna began yawning, Xeno smiled warmly at her before telling them it was time for bed. They had to climb to the very top of the house to reach Luna's room, but the extra steps were worth it for the view over the lush fields she had from a large bay window. Decorated in a bright blue paint, all of the furniture was mismatched and covered in trinkets, the overall effect was very comforting and homely, Hermione found she liked it very much. After changing into her pyjamas, Hermione climbed into the bed. Despite the small size of the room the bed was more than big enough for two, especially when those two were Hermione and Luna, who were both on the small side.

On the bedside table, closest to her, Hermione noticed a copy of the picture Luna gave her for Christmas the year before. Luna’s version was slightly larger, and the frame housed lots of little pictures, mainly featuring different members of the DA. There were two other photographs next to it, the first showed a truly beautiful blonde woman, who she imagined was Luna's mum, Pandora, holding a tiny baby Luna on her lap, she was smiling beautifully at the camera, lifting Luna's pudgy arm to try to get her to look in the same direction.

The second was a picture of Luna’s parents on their wedding day, set in a massive clearing, with assorted guests in a circle around them, but the figures in the middle looked so lost to it all. Even though it was a magical picture, it may as well have been a Muggle still one, for all they moved. The couple were stood facing each other, both hands linked. At the start of each charmed rotation, Xeno Lovegood swiped his thumb slowly across Pandora’s knuckles, and his new wife’s smile widened at the touch, there was no other movement.

"It's lovely isn't it?" Luna asked quietly.

"Very," Hermione answered honestly, she felt a familiar hesitation, it was hard to know what was ok to say about Luna’s mum and after such a lovely day she didn't want to say the wrong thing and upset her.

"Told you were a romantic Hermione," Luna said teasingly, and Hermione hit her with a pillow, all feelings of unease gone in an instant. The girls settled down into bed and after chewing it over Hermione turned on her side to face her friend.

"Luna what did you mean, in the Hospital Wing, when you said you didn't think it had been Dolohov's intention for the spell to altered?"

"I'm not sure really." Hermione sighed, and Luna turned to face her. "No one expected the purple colour; it wasn’t readily identifiable. If he had _wanted_ to hurt you, badly, there were a million ways he could have done so, but he didn’t," she explained.

Hermione mulled over her words, trying to follow Luna’s line of thought, "So you think the purple spell was a misdirection?" She asked eagerly.

"I think you should ask yourself why you want to know," Luna responded studying her face. Hermione returned Luna’s gaze carefully; this wasn't a conversation she was ready to have yet. Mainly because she wasn't sure she was ready for anything she might reveal. She quickly changed the subject and minutes later they were saying goodnight.

Sometime later Hermione woke, she had never been that good at sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, she rolled onto her back to get comfortable, and that's when she saw it. Painted delicately and accurately, taking up half the ceiling was a mural depicting Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville and herself. The pictures didn't move like magical ones, but they were so realistic Hermione almost believed she saw them breathing. She sat up slightly, careful to not disturb Luna, squinting her eyes at the ceiling. Around all of the pictures, in golden ink, were circles that connected them all together, all comprised of the same letters written over and over.

_Friends._

* * *

Hermione arrived home the next day, eager to tell her parents everything about the Lovegoods. Her mum sat happily at the kitchen table as she waxed lyrical about all that had happened and Hermione realised how much she had been holding back from her parents before now, how much she had missed by throwing herself wholeheartedly into the Wizarding world. As she spied her mum’s glassy eyes over her tea cup, Hermione stilled her rush of descriptions.

"Mum, are you ok, what is it?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh don't you mind me, I'm just being a silly mum," at Hermione's stern look Jean laughed. "You just sound _so happy_ darling, it's lovely for me to hear,” she set her cup down on the side of the sink. “I know you have stuff going on, lots of stress. I've always seen it. I know there is more happening than you tell me but it's probably magical, and I wouldn't understand it, but it has been so nice to see more of you this summer, and to see you so much more confident in yourself. I may have been the one to suggest it, but I think developing your friendships has been good for you." Hermione was unsure how to respond, Jean Granger was not typically the type to get emotional.

"So now that you have good friendships, what about boys?" Her mum interjected, smiling knowingly at her, she was clearly trying to lighten the mood, but there was a hint of genuine enquiry in her voice that made Hermione worry. Hermione had never felt so relieved when they were interrupted by a huge eagle owl landing on the table. Her mum jumped back, startled by the sudden appearance and usually Hermione would have rolled her eyes, but she was slightly stunned herself. She wasn't sure she had ever seen an owl as big as this one, or as mean looking, as much as an owl could look mean.

Hermione tried to untuck the note it was carrying gently but the bird nipped down on her finger so hard its beak drew blood. "Ow you horrid thing,” she hissed before resuming her action, this time not breaking eye contact, almost daring the owl to bite her again. Eventually, after what felt like an epic battle of wills, she was holding the folded up note in her hand. Hermione didn't want to feed it, but it swiftly became apparent that it would not leave till it had taken something, so she pushed a little bit of bacon towards its claws, the bird stared hard at her. "What? I'm not willingly putting my fingers _anywhere_ near your beak."

When Hermione had finally shoved it out of the window her mum noticeably relaxed before leaving the room to get the first aid box, Hermione, still grumbling about avian manners, opened the note. Inside the tiny envelope was a ripped scrap of parchment, smaller than her palm, and scratched onto it was a short missive in an unfamiliar hand;

_You have a matter of days_

_We are coming_


	7. Chapter 7

If only I'd thought of the right words    
I could have held on to your heart   
If only I'd thought of the right words   
I wouldn't be breaking apart   
All my pictures of you

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Hermione was still holding the scrap of parchment between her shaking fingers when her mum made it back down the stairs. Upon hearing her mother reach the final step, she dragged her eyes away from the scratchy font and tucked the note into her trouser pocket, focusing on her breathing in an attempt to calm herself down.

"Okay poppet, Dad will be home in an hour or so, what do you want to do tonight?" her mum called out. 

Hermione forced herself to raise her head, animate her eyes and smile. "Not sure yet Mum, might just take a quick shower and then decide. It that alright?" she asked softly, pleased that she had managed to come up with a vaguely plausible reason to get out of the kitchen. Though she had managed to plaster an unconcerned expression on her face, Hermione could feel the trembling in her limbs, the note almost burning a hole into her leg. Her mother was observant, she would notice before long that everything was far from alright. 

"Of course, there are fresh towels in the cupboard," she agreed brightly. 

Hermione moved towards her bedroom, her legs like lead. She mechanically removed clean pyjamas from her chest of drawers and went into the family bathroom. When the latch secured the door in place, she choked back a sob, letting her hands pull manically at her hair as she leant against the wall. Shaking herself, she twisted her body to push her hand through the shower curtain and turn the water on.  _ You knew this was coming; _ she tried to tell herself. She hadn’t thought it would be so soon though.

"HERMIONE!" her mother's voice shouted up the stairs, breaking through the fog that had started to pull her deeper. 

_ Oh God, what now? _

Hermione hastily switched the water off and bounded down the stairs two at a time. "What, what is it?" she called breathlessly, whipping her head back and forth looking for potential threats, but there was nothing, just her mother in the kitchen. Her heart rate began to slow as her mother looked at her quizzically.

"What on earth's wrong with you?” she asked concerned, “I was only calling because of him." Her mum pointed to the window where another owl was sat. This one didn't look anywhere near as mean as the last, but it didn't stop Hermione’s stomach dropping to her feet. It may not have been as intimidating as the last creature that flew through the window, but  _ another _ unfamiliar owl after the note she had received was unlikely to bring good news.

"I'm sorry to have called you darling, I tried to take the message from him, but he kept flapping away from me,” her mother explained, shooting an exasperated look at the bird. “I thought he would wait for you to come down, but every time I turned my back to carry on with something else he hooted at me, it must be important."

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She walked towards the owl slowly and stroked the feathers that had become dislodged from its thrashing around her kitchen, the little bird seemed to sigh into her touch, and Hermione relaxed a little. Now, more convinced that the owl wasn't preparing to attack her, she undid the note tied to its proffered leg and fed it a treat from the box by the window. It made no move to leave, so she assumed it had been instructed to wait for a response. Hermione opened the note carefully, in a manner not dissimilar to when she opened a present from Fred and George; curious though on alert, as if something on the inside could reach out and grab her.

When the script became visible she sagged, at least this writing was familiar, very unexpected, but familiar. Under normal circumstances, she would have been suspicious of the intentions that motivated the note, but given the day she had thus far, she would need to take a leap of faith to ensure her parent's safety. Hermione turned back to the window and picking up her quill hastily wrote her accent on a side of parchment, and sent her reply back with the rested bird.

After she had reassured her mother there was nothing to worry about Hermione hastened back up the stairs for her planned shower. She would need the time to straighten her head out before her father got home. 

Once securely under the pulsing jets of the water, Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding since the first note had arrived. 

There was no more time for deliberation; she had to act. 

When she left the bathroom Hermione half dried her hair before braiding it away from her face; her movements were stiff and unhurried as her mind continued to run over plans that needed to be put in place. She walked onto the landing and once she had assured herself that there was no one on the top level of the house Hermione hurriedly entered her father's study, firing up the email system that he had painstakingly shown her how to use earlier that summer. 

As her life was now mainly submerged in the Wizarding world, she had become less adept with the technological advancements of the Muggle one, and knowing the dangers that were coming Hermione had tried to learn as much as possible from her dad, as inconspicuously as possible. That her father had never even suspected she had ulterior motives made the almost permanent pressure of guilt stab harder into her chest. There was no time to dwell on those thoughts now, taking a deep breath she clicked the send button on the first of her planned emails.

Returning down the stairs Hermione saw that her dad had arrived home from the practice. He looked tired, pressing his hands around the mug her mother gave him, as he readily described something about one of the more difficult patients that day. Her mother bit her lip in an attempt to prevent the threatening laughter. He always got the tougher patients, while Hermione’s parents were both kind people her mum could be a little reactive at times making her unsuited to deal with the argumentative, older patients. When Mark Granger saw Hermione in the doorway, he smiled at her and pulled out the chair next to him at the kitchen table. Hermione felt her heart clench at the familiar gesture, her father wasn't prone to kisses or hugs like some dads she had seen on the train platform over the years, but he always liked her near him. His affectionate gestures were always heartfelt; his smiles always reached his eyes. She took the seat gladly, close was what she wished to be, even if the lump in her throat choked her.

"So your mum tells me you were undecided about what you wanted to do tonight?" he said and then looked down at her pyjama clad form. "Am I to take it from your attire that we are housebound?" His face broke into a warm smile; her father was always happier staying at home rather than going out, he liked the simple things, especially following a rough day at work.

Hermione forced herself to speak, though just looking at his expression caused almost physical pain;  _ she couldn't waste this time _ . "Yes, I thought we could get a takeaway, then maybe watch a crap film?"

That was what they did. 

Hermione spent the evening tucked up between her parents on the ageing living room sofa, exchanging laughs and grimaces at the awfulness of the film, interspersed with complaints from all of them that they had eaten too much food. She pushed thoughts of later away, as much as possible, and instead tried focus on all the little details that she was surrounded by, maybe for the last time. The particular tender tone of her mother’s laugh, the different light-hearted groans her father made. The sheer feeling of love in the room, simple, easy, affectionate love.

Once her parents had gone to bed, Hermione packed up her room, removing any trace of herself and placing everything into her magically enlarged school trunk. It took some time, but once done the room appeared to be just a nice guest room, rather than the bedroom of a beloved family member. 

Hermione slinked out of her night clothes and pulled on a pair of jeans, a jumper and some trainers, then, with nothing else she could do for now, she sat on the end of her bed, waiting. 

It had been easy when she was moving, she almost wished she had been less prepared, or a messier person, so that the pack down would have taken longer. When her hands got too restless, Hermione pulled out the parchment notes, opening the second one to arrive she read it again, for the hundredth time.

_ Miss Granger - I have news that pertains to the safety of your family, this matter is of the highest importance. Confirm you are available to speak tonight at 1 am - I will come to you. _

Hermione glanced at the clock above the mantel 12.59. Seconds later there was a pop of apparition and her view was blocked by the sight of black billowing robes, the newly arrived figure turned on their heel dexterously, revealing the expected sour face of Severus Snape.

* * *

Hermione paused, now he was there other emotions permeated her mounting fear, and she became aware of how bizarre the situation was. It was one in the morning, and the Hogwarts Potions Professor was in her bedroom, if someone had predicted that turn of events even a week prior she would have assumed they were barking mad. Hermione wasn't sure what to say, the ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ of polite conversation seemed somewhat redundant in this situation. The growing silence was, at length, broken by the man sighing, then, without waiting for an invitation, he sank into her desk chair and threw some silencing spells Hermione didn't entirely recognise at the door.

She questioned whether she should be frightened or not. Hermione had never trusted her professor, though she did not share the same sense of rage against him as Harry did, then he had never treated her quite as poorly. His note implied he  _ knew  _ about a potential threat to her family, a threat that by some bizarre twist of fate someone else had already tried to warn her of. Her mind whispered to be cautious, she would have been anyway, he wasn't a man anyone was blasé around, but if he did  _ know _ something, there was only one way he could be in possession of that information. 

This was not a child’s game anymore.

"Miss Granger," his cold drawl filled the space, and Hermione failed to suppress a wince at the sudden sound. "I'm going to need to explain some things to you, and we do not have long, so, to get through this process as expediently as possible, you are going to suppress your ridiculous need to ask as many questions as possible," he directed sternly.

"Sir, I agree, but first-"

"Miss Granger, please, you cannot say you  _ agree _ but then immediately interject," he said crisply.

"No, I know, it's just,” Hermione sucked in a breath and tried to ignore his heated glare. “What was stolen from your potions store during my second year?" she asked hesitantly, unwilling to rile him but not wanting to be chastised later for failure to uphold proper security standards. It seemed that her repeated exposure to the  _ real  _ Mad-Eye Moody over the previous summer had somehow rubbed off. 

Realisation settled over his face, and Hermione thought she saw a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes before he answered. "Boomslang Skin, and the less we dwell on thefts for which you have gone unpunished, the better. May I continue?" he asked mockingly. Hermione wasn't sure it was best to speak at all now, so she simply nodded her assent. 

"Well, first things first as you have probably already deduced I am a Death Eater, no doubt  _ Potter _ told you that he had seen my mark." He rushed out; his frank declaration had surprised Hermione as had the sharp tone he employed as he mentioned Harry, even _ he _ didn't normally sound so acerbic. His last comment was not framed as a question. For the millionth time since she had met the man, Hermione wondered what on earth Harry had done to make him hate him so very much.

Before she could help herself she blurted out, "But I thought you had left… Sir."

Professor Snape's eyes fell on her with cold fury. "It is not a  _ social club _ , Miss Granger. Did you imagine that a society that requires a pound of figurative and  _ literal  _ flesh to join would allow you to leave its number? What did you imagine that would entail? A polite note, respectively declining further attendances sent directly to the Dark Lord? Again, please do  _ shut up. _ " 

Thoroughly chastised and realising the gravity of the situation was even greater than she had first assumed Hermione moved to sit on the edge of her bed in front of the glowering professor and dutifully made no other sound. 

"You do not need to know all of the details, nor will you get them from me. I shouldn't even be telling you any of this." Professor Snape closed his eyes and appeared to be at war with himself for a moment before he reopened them looking more resolved. "I joined a long time ago when I wasn’t much older than you are now. Before the Dark Lord fell, I switched my allegiances, and since he has come back, I have been assisting the Order as a spy. Which is how I came across some information earlier this evening about your family.” At his intake of breath Hermione nodded once to show she had processed his brief synopsis, and though she predictably had hundreds of questions, she managed to keep herself silent. 

“The Dark Lord has commanded that you be apprehended, it is well known, in the walls of Hogwarts and beyond, that you are the brightest of your year, and is commonly felt that without you, Potter would be a lot easier to kill," he said impassively.

Hermione tried to swallow back a myriad of reactions; her teacher had complimented her, had casually referenced the relative ease of murdering Harry and her capture all in one sentence, and all without any apparent emotion attached to any of it.

“They have resolved that there will be an attack soon. I do not have more information. As the Dark Lord grows more paranoid, he tells fewer people the sum of his plans; it is likely that only those that will be _ directly _ involved will know the exact time and date." Hermione’s mind ran over the terrifying prospect of a man like Walden MacNair being  _ assigned _ to this mission. As she mused, Professor Snape turned himself in the chair to face her, glancing at her curiously. "You do not seem surprised,” he began accusingly, “I had expected a great deal more adolescent histrionics." 

Hermione bit down the desire to shout at the emotionless bastard that getting a _ little emotional  _ in the face of the planned ruthless slaughter of your family was not exactly an overreaction. Instead, she considered her response.

"Since the Department of Mysteries I had expected that this might happen,” she began softly, not quite meeting his eyes. “I have been making plans since the start of summer. I did expect I would have longer… but, I received another note of warning before yours this evening."

Professor Snape's eyes bulged almost comically; Hermione was sure she had even seen such a pronounced reaction from the man. "Who sent it?" he said finally.

"I don't know" she answered honestly.

He fixed his assessing gaze on her again and searched her face; Hermione did not feel the gentle nudge of Legilimency against her mind, though she wasn't sure she would have felt it, skilled as he was, she assumed he was searching for truth from her expression. After an impossibly long time, he appeared satisfied and nodded.

"Please hand me the note," he requested calmly, but there was an undercurrent of command in his tone that told her he would be difficult about it if she didn't comply. Reluctantly, Hermione removed it from her pocket and passed it to him for evaluation.

He sighed again but looked pensive, "A charm has been used to alter the handwriting, and something is masking the magical signature, I will need to think on this," he handed the note back to her. "You spoke of plans?"

Hermione explained. She had been drawing up a potential ‘exit strategy’ since term ended. She would be sending her parents to Australia, selling their dental practice, and notifying all of their friends and family of an amazing and  _ immediate  _ opportunity they would be taking, and not to worry if they didn't hear from them. She looked up to face him. "That's where I would need your assistance. I still have the trace, and I can't complete the required… the required memory charms," she finished, her voice threatening to crack.

Hermione thought she might have seen a flicker of pity flash across her professor’s face, but it was gone before she could be sure. After a few moments of heavy silence, he consented and Hermione fought against asking all of the questions she had.  _ Why was he helping her? Why warn her at all? _ None of that mattered, she would have accepted almost anyone's aid if it meant getting her parents away from danger.

* * *

Walking quietly down the stairs Hermione began removing every hint of herself from the kitchen, and then moved through the house, repeating the process in each room, managing, somehow, to hold it all together. After an hour she became numb, only aware she was crying because she could occasionally feel droplets falling from her cheeks, but she made no noise. By prior agreement Professor Snape had been doing the same upstairs, Hermione had been grateful for the offer, there were so many more personal things up there that she wasn't sure she could have managed to do it herself. Eventually he came down, his face still irritatingly impassive, as she was facing the mantel in the living room, stealing herself against the smiling faces staring back at her from under panes of glass.

_ The pictures were the worst.  _

Watching herself magically fading from her parent’s existence made a thrust of pain appear in her stomach. She kept reminding herself  _ why _ she was doing this; _ we are coming _ , as heart-breaking as this felt it would be so much worse to know that her parents could be tortured and killed by Death Eaters, Hermione would never forgive herself for that, not after she had been warned. 

This pain was necessary. 

The professor did not say anything as Hermione continued to work, he made no reference to her tears and didn't even offer so much as a tissue, though he did move to stand at her side, so close their shoulders were almost touching, and in a way she couldn’t explain, whether by accident or design, it helped.

Hermione took a select few of the images she had saved for last, one of her parents on their wedding day, one of all three of them on holiday in Crete when Hermione was about five and one of her mum in her early twenties, from a few months before she got married. Her mother was sitting at a table on the outside of a cafe Hermione had walked passed a thousand times in London. Although the photograph was Muggle she could tell her mum’s wavy hair would have been flowing in the breeze, she looked beautiful, with such a carefree expression. Her mouth accentuated by her dark pink lipstick and hair longer than she ever wore it now. Hermione pushed the pictures inside her coat and finished gathering up things, until finally, they were done. 

She collected all of the relocation paperwork she had organised and left it in a neat stack on the kitchen table, just the way her father would have done, if he had done it himself, rather than just being made to think he had. It was near light now and wouldn't be long before her parents were up. Wordlessly the unlikely pair climbed the stairs in silence, they didn't need to speak anymore, she had told him all of the plans, he just needed to do it. 

Hermione registered a level of anxiety in allowing Professor Snape to mess with their minds, but at the same time grateful, even without the trace she wasn't sure she could have lifted her wand to them.  _ You would have done what was necessary _ , a little voice whispered, and Hermione closed her eyes, as if it would stop the truth from getting in. 

She opened the door to her parents' bedroom and without making any noise breathed in the smell, taking a moment to look at their restful faces before lifting a shaking arm and pointing at her father first, forcing herself not to dwell on how the sombre action made her feel like the ominous spectre of Death. The Potions Master made a slight nod then raised his arm as hers fell, her fingers still splayed as if reaching for them.

" _ Obliviate. _ "

* * *

Back in her room, Hermione made the final preparations to leave. Professor Snape extended an offer to side-along apparate her to the Burrow, another thing for her to be thankful to him for. In all her planning Hermione had never given much consideration to how  _ she  _ would get out of there, she hadn't seemed able to think past what would happen once she had wiped her parent’s memories.

"Thank you," she murmured, as she dropped the last of her things into her trunk. Her voice sounded blank, and she couldn't seem to get any reaction from her facial muscles, her expression must have looked weirdly neutral, especially on someone that was typically so expressive. She hoped somehow that he could ascertain her sincerity in spite of all that. Whatever he detected from her it was clear that her professor was monumentally uncomfortable,  _ how long had it been since someone had thanked him?  _

"Why?" she asked, the word tumbling out of her mouth unchecked. Hermione didn't want to ask, not really, her brain was mush, and she wasn't sure she could take in any more information, but in a few days, when she didn't feel like someone had removed her first two layers of skin, she would come back to herself, and she would want to know. This was her only chance of finding out.

"What?" he asked bemusedly.

"Why would you help me? I am assuming this wasn't on order from Dumbledore; you would have said something," she explained. 

"No, not on orders from Dumbledore, he doesn't know about this and I would…  _ appreciate  _ you not saying anything. I find myself in the curious position of having done something that would anger both sides,” he said, his tone as if he were musing aloud. 

"Dumbledore would be unhappy that I was kept alive?" Hermione asked. 

"Bloody Gryffindors,” Professor Snape snapped, albeit in a subdued voice, given her parents were still sleeping in the next room. “Always the most obvious solution.  _ No _ , not strictly, he would be… _ displeased _ that I risked my cover."

"I suppose with me gone, Harry would have fewer people to rely on, it might force him to be more dependent on those authority figures already in his life."

Professor Snape's face snapped to hers; he indicated he was slightly surprised by the words she had spoken but made no move to confirm or deny them. "You are ready to leave?" he intoned.

"You didn't answer my question," she tried, though on some level Hermione knew she wouldn't get any more from him that evening. As expected Professor Snape ignored her, instead of reply he lifted his arm to hers, and she sighed internally, she didn't have the strength to push him. Hermione indicated her things, and he magically shrunk them.

Professor Snape apparated them to the ward lines of the Burrow and placed her belongings on the ground. Before Hermione could say anything else, he turned to walk away. She was collecting her things, ready to push her way into Molly's kitchen when his voice softly drifted back to her on the breeze. 

"Penance, I suppose."  

Hermione instinctively spun back around, he was facing her, but his stare was fixed firmly above her head. "This was not the first time I have been in this type of situation; I came to see that back then I made the wrong choice, I put my trust in the wrong people. I took measures to save someone, and they got hurt anyway," his voice was barely above a whisper, but in the bright, crisp morning, she heard every word. 

Hermione was suddenly struck by how odd this scene would look if anyone happened to peer out of a window. Two figures standing fifteen feet apart in a blooming meadow, highlighted by the dawning sun, talking about regret and prior hurt. It was like something out of a Regency drama, except it wasn't. She looked at the light illuminating the side of the professor’s face. It was strange, every interaction she’d had with him before now had been in the dull shadows of the dungeons, a place Hermione had always considered to be his perfect environment, and yet, looking at him then it was as if she was seeing him for the first time. Professor Snape looked younger, but more put upon, less caricature of imagined parts, more...  _ real? _

"The world around us is on the cusp of becoming very dark again Miss Granger,” he began, meeting her eyes with an intensity that she had never seen him use without an accompanying scowl. “I thought it would be beneficial to my mental state to have a memory, a single remembrance of having done something good, something that was right."

Hermione tried to meet his eyes, something she never attempted in his classes. "Sir… I…  _ Thank you _ , I won't tell anyone, ever, but just  _ thank you. _ "

She was almost sure she saw the beginnings of a strained smile on his face before, with a muted pop, he, and the only link she had to that evening, was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Fancasts: David Granger - Mark Ruffalo, Jean Granger - Emily Blunt and Severus Snape - Louis Garrell.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione walked towards the Burrow slowly, taking in the light from the now dawned sun and building up a wall around her frayed emotions. She felt so remote from everything here. Professor Snape had disappeared, with a barely audible pop, and with him had taken any evidence that the evening she had just lived through was even real. Now, she had to walk into the Weasley family home and behave as if nothing had changed, when in reality her entire being was now off kilter. She considered it was probably a good time to start practising Occlumency. Molly Weasley may have seven children and always be in the middle of thirty or so urgent tasks, but that didn't stop her being bloody perceptive. Hermione couldn't afford for her to catch on to something being wrong, she didn't want to have to explain herself. Not yet at least. 

As it turned out Hermione needn't have worried, the Burrow she walked into was a house gripped by war, just not the war that was affecting the rest of the Wizarding world. No, this war was being fought over an issue far closer to home. Bill Weasley had returned at the start of the summer, and presented Fleur Delacour; Beauxbatons' graduate, Triwizard Champion, part Veela and unexpectedly Gringotts employee, to the family as his fiancée. The traditionally happy news did not appear to have gone down especially well. Hermione decided that it would be best to remain neutral, as much as possible, it was, after all, a family matter, and she had no desire to get on the wrong side of either woman. That was easier said than done when confronted by an incensed Molly, who had a list of the young French girl’s faults that must have been a mile long. Yes, Fleur did seem to look about the place as if there was a bad smell under her nose, and she did make fairly disdainful glances. Sometimes she made sharp comments to the other women inhabiting the cramped conditions at the Burrow, but one look at Bill told Hermione all she needed to know about how this would play out. The eldest Weasley brother beheld Fleur like she hung the moon, and as the pointy fang dangling from his ear could attest to, Bill did things  _ his way _ , even if Molly was totally set against it. If Bill said Fleur was going to be his wife, then there would soon be a new Mrs Weasley in town.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Molly’s ire that was adding to their hostilities; Ginny disliked the French girl as well. The depth of her aversion Hermione didn't fully understand until she saw the blonde interact with Harry the next day, and the proverbial penny dropped. The men of the house were clearly not impervious to Miss Delacour's ample charms, and Ginny's sulking directly correlated with the amount of time Harry spent blushing, which was a lot. The part Veela evidently still felt a deep debt of gratitude to him for saving her little sister, during the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. Or possibly, she was just trying to make an ally of one of the only non-family members in the house.

Hermione wondered if she would have behaved belligerently towards the girl if she had still harboured feelings for Ron. She admitted to herself, shamefully, that she probably would have. Hermione knew she had a temper and a bit of a jealous streak, add in that she was insecure about her appearance and that Fleur was completely perfect, it was a foregone conclusion. As it was, Hermione watched Ron's stammering treatment of the unparalleled beauty with thinly veiled mirth, like the rest of the house.

Chaotic and tense as the Burrow was over those last few days, Hermione relished it for what it was to her,  _ a glorious distraction _ . She hadn't told any of the others what had happened back at home. She reasoned that Harry would blame himself, and Hermione had no desire to add any more weight onto his already overburdened shoulders. Even if she had been less inclined to secrecy, factoring in the surprising assistance of Professor Snape, she definitely could not see the benefit of imparting information. To give them  _ proof _ of him being an  _ active _ Death Eater would confirm every suspicion they had ever had about him, and after what he had done for her, it would be a betrayal. Hermione could not say that his actions had brought about a change of heart where the teacher was concerned, but she was grateful and would remain so for the rest of her life. Professor Snape had earned her respect; she scoffed slightly at the no doubt scathing set-down he would have given her if she dared to ever tell him as much. But the fact remained, he didn't ever to know. There were many adults in her life that she trusted infinitely more than the Potions Master, but he had been the one there, he had raised the wand to do it. Hermione pondered that he might want something from her later, some back payment for his good dead, although his behaviour had not seemed to suggest that. Most of all she wondered at the situation he spoke of, when he had made  _ the wrong choice _ . It was not likely that she would ever know the details. He was a private man, and even getting as much detail from him as she had was shocking.

Theories on the motivations behind her teacher's behaviour did not take up _ all _ of her head space. It had taken a couple of days before her mind had eased over the initial stab of hurt, and when it did, Hermione began ruminating on the first note. ‘ _ We _ ', the note had said, ' _ we _ '.

The only possible explanation was that the note was from another Death Eater. From the information Professor Snape had given her it would suggest it was someone who  _ knew _ the time and date of the attack. Her professor had known less, and had contacted her immediately, the note, however, was a warning to make a move. The sender must have known she still had those days, likely a person who had been assigned to go to the house.  _ But who could have sent it? _ More than once her mind, unwillingly, moved to dark eyes and wavy hair, but Hermione quickly snuffed that thought out. He was in Azkaban, and even if she set aside the absurdity of such a thought, he was certainly not in a position to either hear that information, or warn her about it. So, it was someone else. 

* * *

Two things were clear as Hermione sat between Ron and Neville at the Sorting Feast; firstly, that this year was going to be just as awful as the last, and that Harry Potter liked to make an entrance.

Harry was almost dragged into the hall by Professor Snape, and Hermione did her best to ignore the professor resolutely, any form acknowledgement would be an enormous mistake. From what she could see of his demeanour, from under her lashes, he was doing the same. Though it probably wasn't much of an effort on his part, it wasn't like they had spent the last few years building up a relationship of witty discourse over shared tea and biscuits. Harry was deposited, roughly, on the bench in front of her, and when Professor Snape swept away, she dared to raise her eyes only to see Harry’s face was completely covered in blood. Once Hermione had assured herself that he was, in fact, fine, she shook her head in frustration.  _ Well, that's what you got for spying on Malfoy. _

Ginny had sent so many angry glances at Harry throughout dinner that Hermione had run interference as they exited the Great Hall, and pulled the girl up to her dorm, allowing her to pace to burn the simmering rage off. Once Ginny had calmed enough that an eruption worthy of Molly was no longer imminent, she fell onto the bed next to Hermione sighing. They chatted about everything and nothing, more freely than they would have felt comfortable to in the Burrow, engaging in the kind of 'girl talk' Hermione had always sneered at her mother for suggesting she would enjoy.

"It's a good job Tonks was there to collect Harry; he might have ended up all the way back in London, then Merlin knows what would have happened. She's apparently applied to be stationed out in Hogsmeade for a while." Ginny rambled, as she absentmindedly blew on a feather that had come loose from the pillows.

"How come?” Hermione replied, her brow pinching slightly. “I thought she would want to be more central to things going on with the Order." 

Ginny sat up straighter, her face alive with a secret smile, a smile that was  _ very familiar _ to Hermione; it indicated that Ginny had gossip. "Well, I heard that Tonks wanted to spend a bit of time away from headquarters, to avoid a  _ particular _ person."

"Who?" Hermione asked baffled, having not picked up on the clumsy Auror having a preference for anyone when she had seen her last.

"Professor. Lupin." Ginny retorted smugly.

"Why?" Hermione replied without thinking.

Ginny slapped her arm. "Hermione,  _ why? _ She's in love with him of course; I heard my mum telling dad that her Patronus has changed to a wolf." Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that, Tonks and Professor Lupin seemed like a bit of an odd match, but she was more concerned with the changing Patronus. Merlin, she would have been mortified in that situation, not being able to hide unrequited love in that way must have been so humiliating, especially given how often the Order used their Patronuses to deliver messages. 

"Isn't it romantic?!" Ginny exclaimed, falling back on Hermione's bed with a theatrical swoon

Hermione rolled her eyes but her lips quirked into a small smile at the redhead's antics. "If you say so Gin, there's a bit of an age gap, though?"

"Yes, but not as much as in some cases, and didn't  _ you _ have a bit of a crush on him when he was the DADA Professor?" Ginny replied wickedly. Hermione flushed bright red, and Ginny laughed. "Don't be embarrassed Hermione, I've always thought you would end up with an older man,” she explained waving her hand dismissively. “And it's not like there's a great number of them in the castle for you to focus on, unless you count Snape, and no one does. Plus Lupin was kind of dreamy in a shuffling, scruffy way." Hermione flushed deeper, "And I take it you don't think of Ron like that anymore?"

It was said with certainty, but there was enough note of enquiry for Hermione to know she was expected to provide confirmation. "No, not anymore, the more I thought about it, the more… it just didn't seem...  _ right. _ ” Hermione replied testing the word. “Being with him would be like forcing two puzzle pieces together that are only an ‘almost fit’, even though you know it will ruin the overall picture."

"That makes sense," Ginny said, and Hermione sagged a little at her ready acceptance.

"What about Dean? You two looked cosy at the Feast," she teased, seeking to take a bit of the attention off herself. 

"I like him; he's lovely… but he's not-"

"Harry?" Hermione tried, and it was Ginny's turn to flush. "Harry likes you; you know that right?" Hermione continued gently. She had seen the change in her messy haired friend over the last few months. When Ginny wasn't present, he always had half an eye out, watching for her, when she was there his attention would continually be pulled back to wherever she was in the room. Hermione felt they were destined, even though that sounded like something Luna would say. She believed it was only a matter of time.

"I know," Ginny groaned, turning onto her side, holding her head up on her arm that was bent at the elbow. "Is it wrong to want him to work for it a little? I spent my first few years of knowing him making a fool of myself and...  _ I do _ like Dean."

Hermione reassured her friend. She didn't think making Harry wait a little while would do him much harm, in fact, it would probably do him a world of good.

* * *

The next morning Hermione had breakfast opposite a blessedly, blood free Harry, who told her, in hushed tones, that Dumbledore had requested he attend private lessons with him this year. Hermione worried about Harry's unquestioning belief where the headmaster was concerned; it was a likely risk to them all. She had long been suspicious of the man’s twinkle and the grandfatherly demeanour he adopted around Harry, the information she had gained the evening her parents were packed off to Australia had hardly changed her views. Though Harry had managed to survive Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape the year before, well, largely,  _ maybe he could get through this too? _

* * *

It wouldn't have been a new year at Hogwarts without the introduction of the unfamiliar DADA Professor, but still, Hermione had been very surprised that Professor Snape had been announced as Umbridge's successor, and Harry had too if his incredibly audible ‘No’ at the news was any indication.

Walking into the classroom, it was evident that their professor had endeavoured to adjust the space to be something more suited to his preferred aesthetic. Much of the natural light had been diminished, and terrifying posters of hideous curses lined the walls. Hermione suspected this fell in line with his favoured teaching technique of scaring the crap out of them, and supposed he couldn't exactly use the more disgusting potion ingredients that he used to. The only thing he hadn't eradicated was the warmth that was found on the upper floor classroom, but it was still the first week.

Only minutes into the assigned practical session Hermione felt the strongest sense of deja vu of her relatively short life, as she stood behind Harry, willing him to shut his mouth. When he sassed Professor Snape, she fought the urge to drop her head in her hands. Then he landed detention which seemed to shock everyone in the room, given Professor Snape’s very deep breathing their teacher wasn't far from a more violent reaction.

As they exited the room, she couldn't hold back from Harry. " _ You don't need to call me Sir, professor _ , are you kidding Harry James Potter?" she scolded shrilly.

Ron cut her off. "Ease up Mione, that was brilliant." 

She huffed off down the corridor leaving them both to get into whatever trouble they wanted for the rest of the day. Hermione wasn’t going to spend another year babying Harry and walking on eggshells around him, hoping he kept his temper. 

* * *

By the end of the week, Hermione was relaxing in one of the comfortable chairs in the common room ahead of breakfast. She had spent a productive evening in the library the night before and was now way ahead of where she needed to be for school work. She had ticked off her various to-do lists of extra tasks and was too tired to think of the anonymous note again. In short, Hermione had nothing pressing to do for the entire weekend to come, and she was revelling in the glorious feeling of it. She supposed at some point she should try to make peace with Harry and Ron, not that she was minded to be overly apologetic. Just as she had reluctantly resolved to speak to them over breakfast Ron walked down the stairs looking pale, closely followed by and anxious Harry. Hermione looked back and forth between them for a moment, trying to pick up on what she was apparently missing until she remembered with a start that it was the Quidditch try-outs that morning.

Oliver Wood had graduated at the end of last year, leaving the Keeper position open. From a conversation a week before, that Hermione had been half listening to, she knew Ron was going against Cormac McLaggen, a seventh year, who walked down the stairs seconds later looking much more confident than Ron.

Hermione jumped up to follow them to breakfast and spent the next twenty minutes absolving herself for her temporary memory loss by fussing over Ron and trying to get him to eat something. She was forcibly made to stop by Harry grabbing her wrists from across the table. "Stop fussing Mione, he is going to do brilliantly," he said, though his bright green eyes looked a little disbelieving.

Hermione nodded emphatically, meeting Ron's questioning gaze, who seemed to brighten at her agreement. It was a testament to how out of sorts Ron was that he was looking for reassurance on his Quidditch prowess from her. Hermione had attended more games than she cared to count and still wasn't exactly sure what the rules were, and she was definitely at a loss when it came to the point of it all. Still, when Harry got up to urge Ron to the field, Hermione gathered her coat and scarf to follow, pointedly ignoring the surprised faces of the other Gryffindor's at the table at her apparent willingness. Lavender Brown narrowed her eyes in Hermione’s direction, but she brushed it off. This was important to Ron, and she was Ron's friend. Most of the time. 

"You're coming right Mione?" he asked hesitantly as she paused to adjust her scarf.

"Of course Ron," she answered automatically, only just noticing the slightly green tinge his skin had taken.

She regretted her eagerness later, once she was faced with the chill whipping around the pitch.  _ Why couldn’t there be a warmer way to show solidarity? _

Harry's bold prediction regarding Ron's performance was actually not far off. Despite an obvious lack of confidence in his ability Ron successfully deflected four of the five Quaffles fired at him, seeming to perk up after each play was made.

Then it was McLaggen’s turn.

Cormac was  _ definitely not _ in the midst of a crisis of spirit; he approached the hoops with an arrogant swagger, something Hermione imagined was incredibly difficult to pull off while airborne on a broomstick. Cormac was objectively incredibly attractive, certainly one of the best looking boys in Hogwarts, and Hermione could quote that as an  _ almost _ official statistic, Lavender and Parvati had a list. Cormac had been in the top five ranking on that sheet of parchment since the girl’s first year. He did move about a bit, but that seemed to be dependent on whether or not he smiled at the girls on a regular basis.

Hermione watched on, growing tenser as Cormac saved the first four Quaffles without appearing to try very hard. The feat was made all the more impressive as she was pretty sure the team were working far more doggedly to get it passed him than they had been with Ron. It all came down to this, the final play, Hermione watched the Quaffle leave Ginny's hand, and she could already predict the outcome from the angle the ball was flying, not to mention the skill she had already seen the older Gryffindor display. Before thinking about it fully she sent a small confundus at Cormac, without using her wand or speaking. Hermione had been practising with similar magic for a year, mainly when she had been staring the back of Harry’s head in DADA classes. She wasn't confident with it; she rationalised that there was about a fifty-fifty chance of it working, in some part of Hermione's brain that absolved her culpability, a little.

She noticed the vaguely distant eyes Cormac had for a second and she knew it had succeeded, he shook it off as soon as the Quaffle had shot passed him. 

"Bugger," Hermione muttered to herself quietly.

* * *

Hermione was not having a good week.

She and Harry had been circling each other like boxers before a fight for days now, and it was only a matter of time before one of them broke. Following the Quidditch try-outs there had been a party in the common room, which Hermione would have tried to enjoy,  _ if only for Ron's sake _ , (Harry had elected to make him Keeper following the even try out scores), despite Harry continually catching her eye and giving her assessing looks. Hermione wasn't sure whether it was the lingering guilt making her paranoid, or, more likely, that Harry knew something about what she had done, so she did the ‘Hermione thing’ and avoided him as much as possible.

Then they had their first Potions lesson with Professor Slughorn. Harry and Ron had not been expecting to take the class, as Professor Snape had always demanded the highest grades, and as such neither had the appropriate textbook. They were pointed to the dusty supply cupboard, and both grabbed old copies. The lesson passed in a daze of steam and concentration until the end, when Hermione looked on astonished as Harry, who typically scraped through the subject, was labelled as a prodigy. He was being lauded, and Hermione's potion hadn't even worked. Professor Slughorn had come over and eyed her cauldron sceptically; she had _ ‘ _ come close’ apparently.

When they left the room Hermione's hair was larger than it had ever been, due to a combination of mingling fumes and lingering temper. She roughly fought it back into a ponytail as Harry had told her it was all because of that book.  _ He had used it to cheat _ . She told him to give it back, but he wouldn't listen, and completely failed to see why she was so angry. Hermione stormed off, something she was making a bit of a habit of, but it couldn’t be helped, she felt too enraged to deal with them in that moment. 

Despite what people would believe, Hermione had never considered that she was  _ naturally  _ intelligent, she was a hard worker who was good at research, her grades took  _ effort  _ and time, and for Harry to be happy to cheat made her so infuriated she didn't know how to cope with all of the feelings coursing through her.

And so it was with great reluctance that Hermione went along to the Gryffindor v Hufflepuff match with the rest of the students that weekend, relations between herself, Harry and Ron were decidedly off, and the sight of Cormac sitting in the stands made her feel slightly queasy. She perked up however when she noticed Luna sat in the commentary box regarding the world around her absently until she spotted Hermione and began waving animatedly. Hermione’s face broke into a delighted grin. Much more eager, she rushed into the stands and took a seat next to Neville who immediately offered Hermione his scarf as the first chill of wind moved through them.

* * *

Following the match, Hermione all but ran over to where Luna was standing; her friend was watching her movement with a growing grin oblivious as an exasperated Professor McGonagall scolded her for her ‘irrelevant and illogical commentary’. In a very un-Hermione-like move, she jumped on Luna, the force of her hug nearly knocking the pair of them to the floor.

"You, Luna Lovegood have done the  _ impossible; _ you have made Quidditch not just  _ bearable _ but thoroughly entertaining!" She laughed out in pure delight. Luna beamed, and both girls ignored Professor McGonagall's incredulous expression before the infuriated teacher sighed to the heavens and headed back to the castle.

* * *

The weekend following the first Quidditch match of the season was a Hogsmeade weekend, and while generally a tempting trip, the lingering chill in the air had put the girls off. Instead, Hermione, Luna and Ginny cobbled together a selection of blankets from their various dorm rooms and Luna charmed the elves into bringing food up to them in the Astronomy Tower. Hunkered down under multiple layers, Hermione was sharing her favourite moments of Luna's commentary, while taking sips of the perfect cocoa. Luna lit up with pride during the animated retelling, and Ginny rolled around pounding the floor laughing, her uncontrollable giggles echoing around the stone turret.

_ "Ginny Weasley coming onto the field now, she's very kind to me, and I am reliably informed, by the consensus of the Ravenclaw common room, that she has a very nice bum." _

_ "Ernie McMillan does not want to release that Quaffle; it seems like a clear case of Quafflitis - terribly sad, can end a player's career. A fear of letting go of the Quaffle can be a difficult thing to overcome." _

_ "Ow and Harry Potter has been hit by a stray Bludger; this will likely be the end for him in this game but it should help him with his Wrackspurt issue. Head trauma is the only known way to disturb an infestation once it is in advanced stages." _

Their peaceful sanctuary was interrupted far too prematurely by Harry. In his typical style, he launched himself through the door and explained, breathlessly, that Katie Bell had been cursed by a necklace given to her by an Imperiused Madam Rosmerta. He related in a series of disparate sentences that the professors had thus far not been able to lift the curse. Their housemates’ condition being deemed severe, though not critical, and she would be transferred to St Mungo's as soon as her parents arrived later that day.

"It's Draco; it has to be, you must see that now Mione," Harry panted out.

"Using an  _ Unforgivable? _ Do you really think he is capable of that?" Hermione asked incredulously, standing from the warm cocoon of blankets and walking over to him.

"Yes, I do," he bit out, firm in his resolve.

"Okay, Harry,” she acceded quickly raising her hands in front of herself, “but even if you're right we have no proof,” she challenged as much as she dared.

Harry surged forward his eyes glinting at her hostility. "Why I am I the only one who cares about this? You should be helping me!" Ginny and Luna both started at the unexpectedly loud tone.

"I am Harry, I seem to do nothing but help you, but this  _ obsession _ with Malfoy being a Death Eater isn't helping, and in any case, there is a slightly more pressing matter to be dealt with now."

"What carrying on your chat with your girlfriends?" he sneered. 

"No Harry," Hermione replied, even though the contortion of his face in such anger had poked at her ire. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She didn't want to fight with him while he was in this state, it was very likely they would both say things they would regret. "I am going to visit Katie before she is sent to St Mungo's," she said, pushing for an air of finality in her tone.

Ginny and Luna stood, voicing their desire to attend as well and Harry moved to the side, clearing a path to the door, Hermione took it as a nonverbal acceptance that the subject was closed, for now, though Harry was obviously still raging. Once Ginny headed down with the remains of the food, Luna collected all of the pillows and moved towards the exit while Hermione was drawing together the blankets. 

"One should always be careful of erosion Harry." She heard Luna say, the blonde had paused by Harry’s side though her eyes were fixed on her fingers playing with the corner of a decadent scatter cushion.

"Is that supposed to be helpful?" He snapped, and Luna smiled balefully at him.

"Erosion of rock formations occurs when waves repeatedly batter against their surface,” Luna said while beating out a rhythm against the custom she was holding, accenting her words. “What was once jagged, characterful and hardy gets worn away. The rock bends to the mightier will of the ocean; it retains no trace of what it was before. It becomes brittle."

"Luna, as usual, I have no idea what you are saying!" Harry barked, Hermione flinched at his tone but Luna's face didn't register it, she moved even closer to him.

"I'm saying, Harry Potter, that you should be careful that your abrasive temper doesn't erode away the support and personality of friends, people that have stood firmly for you, as unmoving as the earth beneath your feet. If you wish your words to be headed as law, without question, I suggest you befriend mindless drones."

Luna managed to breathe out the words out in her normal airy way, but the steel behind them was clear. She breezed out of the doorway, her chin in the air, and Hermione rushed to catch up with her.

* * *

As though it had temporarily taken over her life, Hermione once again found herself in the stand overlooking the Quidditch pitch, next to Neville. All of her other friends were involved in the game to some capacity. Harry, Ron and Ginny were on the team and Luna, the only bright spot that made it worth the time out of the library, was once again commentating. Professor McGonagall looked over at the commentary box with a face pinched in resignation, _who would have guessed that their passionate professor would come to miss Lee ‘that was clearly a foul’ Jordan?_ Despite Professor McGonagall’s obvious reticence, it was clear everyone else, all houses, and even the staff appeared to enjoy it. Hermione thought she even saw Professor Snape’s lips quirk up once or twice but that might have been a trick of the light.

The game seemed to be going Gryffindor's way, and despite some rougher tactics from the Slytherin team they were up against, all of the red-clad figures were enjoying themselves.

Luna's voice carried across the stands;  _ "Marcus Flint making a deliberate foul there, right in front of Madam Hooch. That doesn't seem like a sensible decision, but then it is possible he is suffering from Loser's Lurgy. Those with sloping foreheads and prominent brows are much more prone to developing it." _

Hermione smiled, and even the aghast expression on her long-suffering Head of House's face could not stop her giggles.

None too soon it was over, and if the jubilation on Harry's face was any indication, there would be a party in the common room that evening.

* * *

'Party' was a bit of an understatement for what was happening in the Tower that night. Hermione was fairly sure there had never been this many Gryffindor's so assumed some infiltration from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, though it was hard to see just who was who in the crush of bodies. She concentrated on suppressing her inner Prefect, but only as she was so pleased for Ron, he deserved this. Ron always felt in the shadow of  _ someone _ , first his brothers and then Harry, the-boy-who-lived, but this moment was all his. He had made a few saves during the match that even Hermione, as an uninterested novice, could say were spectacular.

She began to debate leaving to do some homework; she felt uncomfortable at gatherings of any kind. It was awkward; she didn't quite know where to stand, Ginny was chatting to Dean, stood in a corner invading each other's personal space, Hermione caught Harry as he looked on longingly at the cloistered couple and she stifled a giggle.

Suddenly the crowd were cheering again, some other re-enactment of a famed win, and she spied Ron drinking what she thought was his third firewhisky, in half an hour. Hermione decided to go over and congratulate him before he was incoherent, and then she would allow herself to leave, people never seemed to have fun with her anyway. As she moved towards him, trying to force her way through the taller bodies, she was aware of a hush that came over the mob followed by even louder hooting. As she broke her way to the front, Hermione stopped dead at the sight of Lavender Brown, climbing Ron like a tree, arms and legs wrapped around him as if he was a life raft in shark-infested waters and then they were kissing. No, _ not kissing _ , full on  _ snogging _ . Snogging like someone had fed her poison and Ron's tonsils contained the antidote.

Incapable of an entirely coherent thought Hermione pivoted on her heel, with a level of agility her junior school netball teacher had never managed to coach her to do, and she ran from the common room as quickly as the crush of bodies would allow.

* * *

Half an hour later Hermione found herself in an abandoned classroom and in the quiet open space she felt able to think. Her reaction had been a little dramatic she could admit, but she had thought herself in love with Ron since the third year and had only recently given up on those feelings. Feelings or no feelings it had been a bit of a shock.

He was still her friend, one of her best, and Hermione supposed she was jealous of him in a way, she  _ wanted  _ that, wanted someone to  _ want _ her like that. Want her enough to kiss her in front of over half their House, and the other assorted rabble, and not care who said what.

Hermione hated Lavender more acutely than ever before. It was not a feeling she was proud of. She had never made much effort with the girl she considered vapid, and Hermione knew she held at least some blame for the fact they did not get on, still, she reckoned Lavender would be harping on about this for the rest of the year. Life in their shared dorm was likely to get even more unpleasant.

Hermione had conjured a series of small blue birds that were currently floating above her head; she had only recently perfected the spell, and it made her feel less lonely. When she had come back after the summer, Hermione had tried to cast a Patronus, but the shimmering otter wouldn’t come. The memory she had been using as a failsafe was of her mother, a couple of years ago, on holiday, when she had sat behind Hermione at her dressing table and braided her unruly hair. It had been such a powerful image, and when she had hit upon it, the small mammal conjured would float and dance about the air for almost half a minute. Now her enchantment brought forth a barely visible wisp. Another thing that she had to keep a secret.

Staring up at the ceiling as the birds circled Hermione was caught by surprise when the door creaked, and her head snapped up to see the unexpected face of Neville poking through. 

"Is it okay if I come in?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sure," Hermione replied, very glad that her tears had subsided sometime before.

There were several seconds of pause while Neville pulled himself up onto the table top Hermione had plonked on top of and sat himself down next to her. "Are you ok?" he asked gently.

"Yes, I think so," she replied at once, realising how unconvincing her hollow tone sounded.

"You sure? I thought, maybe,” he began falteringly before seeming to steel himself, “well, I thought you might have been upset because of Ron and Lavender?"

Hermione flushed, apparently Tonks wasn't the only one who had not been able to keep her feelings to herself. "Well, err… no, not exactly. I am a little upset but not… not really because of Ron," Hermione breathed, trying to formulate what she wanted to say. It would be an explanation she would have to use again later, so it was best to iron it out now. "I liked Ron… more than friends… for a long time, but not anymore," she all but whispered, her cheeks burning. 

Hermione fixed her eyes on the rhythmic movements of her feet as she swung them under the table. Neville looked up into her face, surprise written all over his features but thankfully she didn't think she could detect scepticism, she didn't have the energy to  _ convince _ someone. 

"I still love him, but as a friend I think,” she continued, wincing at the fumbling nature of her words. “It's a little complicated, but mainly I may have been… I think I was jealous." 

Hermione was aware she was a bright red beacon now. It had taken a lot for her to admit that failing, but she had always trusted Neville. Harry never knew how to deal with her when she was like this, her upset made him uncomfortable, and it wasn't like she could tell Ron.

Neville’s face held no condemnation or seemingly any judgement at all for her admission; he only looked at her kindly before turning his head to look up at the conjured birds. Hesitantly he asked, "Why? Why would you be jealous? It's not… it's not  _ Lavender _ is it?" he asked his eyes widening.

Hermione burst into laughter, both at the suggestion and the look of horror on Neville's face, with the release she felt some of the pain of the last hour or so subside, after a moment he laughed too, taking her reaction as his answer.

"Then why?" he pressed, once their giggles had subsided. 

"I'm not sure," she averted her eyes, "but maybe, maybe I want that too."

"You've never really struck me as the type to want public displays of affection," Neville teased in a tone Hermione had never heard from him before and she huffed out another laugh.

"No maybe not, but the sentiment behind it maybe," she confessed quietly and Neville nodded in apparent understanding.

The contemplative silence that had fallen between them was broken when the door slammed open, and Ron and Lavender virtually fell through it. "Sorry, sorry," Ron began then his face fell on Hermione and Neville, and he seemed to go from confusion to suspicion in an instant.

"Sorry we were looking for an empty room, but it seems  _ this one is taken _ ," Lavender said with a wink,  _ an actual wink!  _ She dragged Ron back out and crashed the door behind them.

The remaining occupants of the room looked at the door that had just closed in surprise for a second before Neville coughed a couple of times and then resumed watching the birds floating above their heads while playing with the sleeves of his jumper. "Suppose… suppose someone did… err… well, like you…  _ like that _ ," he made a vague gesture with his hand in the direction of the door, Hermione was momentarily stunned.  _ Who? _

"Err… I don't, I don't know; I haven't ever given much thought to the idea that anyone liked me," she answered honestly.

Neville nodded, his face crumpled up in what Hermione thought was almost pain; he coughed several times again not taking his eyes off the floating birds. "What if?" He began very quietly, "What if it were me?"

Hermione looked at Neville for a long moment. Despite typically being relatively fast on the uptake it seemed to take an extraordinarily long time for his words to sink in. When they did, there was a snap of recent memories in her mind and a large part of their interactions over the last year made a great deal more sense.

"You… you think you like me?" Hermione answered in an equally small voice.

"Err… not think, no. Pretty confident actually," Neville replied, and Hermione’s mind scrambled

"Oh," she said stupidly, and tried to formulate a better answer, all she could think was how brave he had been. Stumbling and hesitant yes, but he had still admitted his feelings. He deserved her to be honest in return.

"Oh?" Neville replied in a slightly strangled voice.

"Sorry, sorry,” she rushed out “it's… I didn't know… I didn't expect," Hermione felt her throat close at what was about to happen, she may be completely clueless when it came to boys and dating and a cause of much exasperation for Ginny in that regard, but she knew her own heart. She took a deep breath,  _ what would I want to hear? _

"Neville that's… that's flattering but I… I really like you as a friend." She paused and nearly bit her lip fighting the urge to look up at him.

"That's… That's ok Hermione; I didn't expect any different."

She hated the defeated tone in his voice. She wanted to reach for his hand but thought that might be mixed signals, or something. "I'm sure you won't like me for long anyway, you'll probably find soon that I'm somewhat annoying," she said with forced cheer.

"I'm not sure about that… you're… you're sort of perfect,” he said, his eyes fixed on his knees, “you have always been so kind to me, and… and since the lesson on the Unforgivables in the fourth year, but… I mean, I'm sure I'll get over it," he said in the same brittle tone that she had used.

"I'm sorry Neville," Hermione abhorred how inadequate that statement was, but she didn't have much else she could say. She desperately wanted to say 'maybe in time' or 'after the war', so much so that the words nearly fell out of her mouth. But she knew it wasn't true and as painful as it was, false hope would be worse.

"It's ok, or you know, it will be," he said with a mirthless little laugh.

"Is it wrong to ask if we could still be friends?" she asked hopefully.

"No," he turned to face her, "we'll always be friends, but maybe… no study sessions or anything for a little bit yeah?"

"That's fair," Hermione replied gently.

"So um… I don't have a right to ask this, but as I've already completely humiliated myself I might as well go for broke, is there someone… you said not Ron, is there someone else?"

Hermione fought the image of dark brown eyes, and would discuss with herself later why her first reaction to that question was to think of a man that she had never had a conversation with, who was on the other side of the impending war, who had cursed her in their only interaction to date, oh, and what was it? Oh yes, was currently in the middle of the North Sea in prison.

"No… there's no one… why is there anyone else you-" she tried, forcing the conversation away from herself. 

Neville cut her off, "No, well, not for a while."

"I think Hannah Abbott fancies you!" Hermione blurted and then immediately one hand lurched up to cover her mouth. She had no idea why she had just revealed. It was something Ginny had told her months ago, and she had never given much consideration to gossip. She supposed in some way she was just trying to give him  _ something _ , anything that would make this moment less horrible.

"That's… that's interesting," Neville said blankly.

"Sorry I have no clue why I blabbed that out like that," she said, feeling her face heat up again.

"It's ok… do you think we could just sit here for a while?"

"Yes… that's… of course." 

And so they did, they didn't look at each other, they didn't move any closer, they just sat together for what felt like the longest time. When Neville finally got up to leave, Hermione fought the tears that threatened away. Despite his assurances that everything would be fine, she knew this would impact their friendship, possibly forever.

When the door closed, much more gently than before, as he exited, Hermione let go cried herself hoarse, only returning to the common room long after the ‘party’ had been abandoned.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Following her illuminating, awkward, and painful conversation with Neville, Hermione found herself missing her mother even more, something that before that moment she wouldn't have considered possible. What she wouldn't have given for her mum's talk on boys. She may have squirmed over the summer when the topic had been raised, but right now _all_ she wanted was her mother's opinion. Hermione shut her eyes and tried to imagine the familiar soothing voice, the feeling of a delicate hand on her cheek, but the image wouldn't come.

The development was yet another thing she couldn't talk to her friends about; it wouldn't be fair to Neville. Hermione considered that she might be able to tell Luna, but even that felt like a betrayal of sorts. Ginny, as much as she loved her, was not used to keeping things to herself, having grown up in a house full of siblings, she didn't fully comprehend the _absolute_ nature of a secret in the same way Luna would, and the boys were very much out of the question.

Hermione went out of her way in the weeks that followed to ensure that herself and Neville maintained their close friendship. While at the same time she accepted his wishes to stop studying together, and tried not to do anything that would make him believe she may have changed her mind. It was difficult, but she began to think she had found the right balance, she would not shy away from his company, and attempted, however ineptly, to uphold the status quo. Neville was important to her, and Hermione was sure that he would move on quickly, they weren't meant to be. She wasn't sure why she felt she knew that as resolutely as she did, it was just a feeling she had that radiated from her chest. She had heard Ginny say once that you didn't have to think a relationship would be forever to give it a chance, and Hermione agreed, in theory, but when it came to it, her heart didn't work that way.

Her resolve that Neville would move on was rewarded a month or so later, when sat at the breakfast table, trapped in her head, as usual, puzzling over the calorie content of Ron's breakfast in comparison to her own, and their relative body fats, which did not end in her favour, Hermione noticed Neville shyly returning Hannah Abbott's yearning looks from the Hufflepuff table. She had hoped that was a sign that everything would go back to normal with the boys in her life. Relations with Harry had quelled following their fight in the Astronomy Tower, his outbursts by this point were par for the course, though he had never been quite that angry with her before, and never in front of an audience, especially one that contained Ginny. Luna hadn't treated him any differently after she had put him in his place, though Harry had reported that in his Divination class, following the incident, Professor Trelawney had almost fallen over herself to give him the 'grave news' that one of her 'truly gifted' fifth years had predicted he would develop a _severe_ case of spattergroit'.

But calm seas were not to be. As relations with Harry improved Hermione’s friendship with Ron became combative. Ron had ostensibly picked up on there being something between her and Neville. Possibly only putting it all together when he saw them sitting in the abandoned classroom on the night of the Quidditch win. Hermione couldn't fault his typically unobservant behaviour; she hadn't noticed Neville's affections either.

Ron spent a lot of time carefully studying Hermione's face and appraising Neville through narrowed eyes. His glares never lasted long, lately, you could not see Ron for ten minutes together before Lavander appeared, acting like a bereaved widow, bemoaning her lived moments 'without her _Won-Won_ '. Hermione's distaste for the spectacle made her question, again, if she was jealous. Her feelings for Ron had always been between friends and something more, but she didn't think she was. She had even taken back her earlier assertion that she wanted someone to want her _like that_ , Ron and Lavender’s ‘want’ for each other didn't seem overly hygienic. Though, as expected, Lavender was having a great time, talking about how _perfect_ Ron was at any given opportunity, especially whenever Hermione was in earshot. It was evident that Lavender felt she had won some sort of victory over her. Normally Hermione would have let the pampered blonde’s behaviour fly straight over the top of her head, but for some reason, Lavender’s consistent attacks were beginning to grate, and Hermione was in real danger of losing her temper. So, when Cormac Mclaggen approached Hermione, two minutes after _Lav Lav_ had made a spiteful remark about her hair, and asked her to attend Slughorn's Christmas Party with him, Hermione found herself saying; "Yes Cormac, I would _love_ to."

His terribly smug expression dampened her spirits a little, and Neville's wide eyes made her want to swallow the words back up, but as Hermione turned and sat back in her seat to see a whole table of astonished faces and Lavender looking like she had swallowed several lemons, she decided it was worth it. Even if she was cutting off her nose to spite her face.

* * *

The evening of Slughorn's Party came around much quicker than Hermione wished. Ginny and Luna had both insisted on 'helping' her get ready, which all three of them knew meant she would be expected to shut up while the younger girls debated what to do with her appearance. Hermione wasn't normally given an opinion in these situations, as she had long ago been deemed clueless within the realms of fashion and beauty. Hermione found the assessment offensive, but sadly accurate, so having learnt her lesson at the Yule Ball she knew the easiest way to endure it, was to stop fighting against it.

Hermione couldn’t settle on which part of the evening she was dreading most, being _assisted_ by Ginny and Luna, or having to _present_ herself to Cormac when the ‘makeover’ was complete, only for him to inevitably think she had spent ages getting ready to win his approval.

After two hours of being poked, prodded and assured that the dark blue silk wrap dress she had been coerced into purchasing, was not _too low_ at the front, Hermione was unceremoniously pushed down the stairs.

She crossed the common room, a little unsteady on her kitten heels, and as she exited the portrait hole, Hermione tripped and tumbled into a waiting Cormac. Cheeks sufficiently pink at her display of clumsiness, she righted herself, eventually able to pull from his firm grasp to see him make a bit of a show of looking her up and down. On the right man, that move, Hermione imagined, could be relatively pleasing, but it looked a bit forced on Cormac, the overall effect was almost comedic rather than alluring, as she believed he had intended.

Cormac was taller than Hermione, standing just under six feet, he had wavy blonde hair that was cut short, though there was enough for it to be styled in a bed-head kind of way that she was sure was supposed to make him look carefree and tousled, however, was no doubt affected by many minutes in front of a mirror. He took her arm, and the students made their way down to the dungeons together.

Ginny was going along with Dean and Harry had invited Luna. Hermione was incredibly glad of the additional bodies as they made their way down the corridors. Cormac was attentive but not gallant, and she regularly found herself having to side step away from him to allow them to walk side by side more _appropriately_. Her only other experience of anything remotely date-like was with Viktor at the Yule Ball, and the Durmstrang student had been the perfect gentleman. Viktor had made Hermione feel small, safe and protected. Not that Cormac was rude or inattentive, far from it, but there was an ever-present little gleam in his eye that whispered of the quid pro quo he expected to be in force by the end of the night.

When they entered the party, Cormac sought out a corner to perch in, and Hermione was grateful to sit down, already bored of her shoes and having no desire to ‘work the room’. An hour of talk later Hermione mused that in years to come when she looked back over her dating experiences the athletic blond would not go down as the best conversationalist that had ever lived, though he wasn't as bad as some people made out. Yes, all he wanted to talk about was Quidditch, and how great he was, or sometimes a combination of the both, like when Hermione got a whistle stop tour of _The Greatest Saves in the Life of Cormac Mclaggen_ . In reality, though, he wasn't much different from any of the other boys she spent time with; Cormac treated her differently because, somewhere, underneath all the bluster, he must have thought this would impress her. While he was mistaken, and yes, he hadn't exactly taken the time to find out what she _did_ like, Hermione was pretty sure as much as she loved Harry, he wouldn't have exactly made much better date. She subtly looked over her drink at Cormac who was still talking away and waving his arms animatedly, maybe Ginny had been right, it wasn't the boy, it was that _he was a boy_.

Hermione knew she was inexperienced compared to other girls in her year, it didn't bother her too much, but she couldn't help feeling like she was missing out on something. Luna was right, not that Hermione would ever admit it, she was a romantic at heart, though not in the hearts and flowers kind of way, she was too practical for that, but she believed in love. All Hermione desired from her future partner was someone that would love her, and put her needs first, at least occasionally. Not a blind love where they thought she was perfect, but someone who knew how flawed she was and loved her in spite of them or maybe even because of them.

When Cormac clumsily moved her under the mistletoe, behind a thick velvet curtain, Hermione didn't resist too greatly. She was sixteen and so far had never been that close to kissing. Viktor had been interested but hesitant, because of how much older he was, _or maybe that had been an excuse?_

Cormac's kissing, Hermione discovered, was a lot like his conversation, not particularly dependent on audience participation. After a little while of letting him be in control, she tentatively tried kissing him back, _in for a penny_ she thought. Cormac immediately moaned in a guttural way that startled her before he moved both his hands to the small of her back, the touch instantly making her stiffen and open her eyes. When she raised her face she saw Neville looking at her through cold eyes. Hermione hadn’t known he was invited, _why was he here?_ Then she noticed the tray he was carrying; he must have been one of the students asked to come along to serve drinks and food, _oh Merlin could she feel a bigger bitch at this moment?_

Hermione turned away from Neville, not able to meet his gaze, and suddenly felt like she would rather be anywhere else in the world. She moved both her hands up to Cormac's shoulders to dislodge him from her mouth. The squelching pop they made as they wrenched apart made her wince, and she stepped back on shaky legs. "Sorry, Cormac I... I think it might be time for me to head to bed."

Hermione feared that he would protest, however, Cormac didn't look put off in the slightest by her making to run for it, if anything his expression was self-satisfied, his eyes were slightly dazed, and his lips were covered in her barely-there pink lipstick. She could just imagine him believing she had been so _overwhelmed_ by his prowess she had to leave to get a hold of herself.

Hermione stumbled away from the dungeons, tears flowing freely from her eyes, _why was it that her attempts at dating always ended like this?_

Carrying her shoes in her shaking hands, Hermione made it back to her dorm and jumped in the shower, keen to wash away the evening, and the emotions surrounding Cormac and Neville that were clinging to her skin.

Once she had got out and dried her hair she pulled on the biggest, rattiest jumper she owned. The grey sweatshirt had been one of her dad's from his university days, fitting her almost like a dress. The lettering had begun peeling years ago, but it was one of the only things she had taken with her from her home. She hadn't washed it yet, even though it probably needed it, the faint smell of his aftershave that lingered did more than the shower had to comfort and calm her.

Pulling out a clean piece of parchment Hermione began writing a letter to her mum, a letter telling her everything about Neville, Ron, Harry and Cormac, a letter that covered what she would have told her if they were able to have that boy talk.

A letter she would never send, the first of what would be become _many letters_.

Once she was finished pouring herself into the paper, Hermione pushed the tear splashed parchment inside a book she had just finished and moved off her bed to hide it away at the bottom of her trunk. It wasn't something she wanted her dorm mates to find, under any circumstances. Rooting around she pulled out a t-shirt she had thought she’d lost and a couple of pieces of parchment fluttered to the floor. As Hermione absently reached for them she found she was looking at the school picture of Antonin Dolohov; she had almost forgotten she had taken it from the library. She stared at it for several seconds her fingers reaching forward until she shook herself, gathered up the parchment squares, and shoved them inside the same book, dropping it into her trunk, before harshly closing the lid.

* * *

The Christmas holidays were approaching again, and Hermione was keener than ever to get away from the castle, or at least, away from boys with red ties. Neville, for one, had been distinctly frosty with her over the last week, Hermione didn't blame him, but her empathy didn't make his hurt or disappointed glances any easier to bare. Ron was still almost surgically attached to Lavender and Harry was spending his time either shut away with his ridiculous potions book or brooding over Ginny, utterly ambivalent to Hermione’s mounting issues.

Despite it already being early December Hermione had yet to make firm plans for what she was going to do. She received no invite from the Burrow, at first she had thought it was because Ron was unhappy with her, but then she had received an owl from Molly, apologising profusely, explaining that they didn't have space for her. Fleur would be with them in Ottery St Catchpole for Christmas, as well as Charlie, meaning the overrun house would be full to the rafters, quite possibly literally.

Hermione sent a missive back, attempting to ease Molly's obvious anxiety. It was all right, she had written, she intended to stay at Hogwarts and make a start on her Charms backlog, it was a fairly transparent lie, but it was better than admitting she was a little hurt. The feeling of being left out magnified when she settled into her bed that evening and overheard Lavender relaying in excited whispers to Parvati how she had been invited to the Burrow for Boxing Day dinner to ‘meet the family’. Of course, the Weasley home being full or not hadn't affected Harry's invite; Hermione hated herself a little for the spiteful thought, deep down she knew if Molly was aware her parents were gone she would have made space for her.

So Hermione decided that staying at Hogwarts was the best thing to do, which was handy, as it was her only option. That was until Luna found out she had decided to stay. Her friend was determined to spend at least part of the holiday together but was unable to remain at the castle herself, as not going home would mean her father would be alone. Being an only child herself it was something that Hermione could understand, though she thought back with a wince at how many holidays she had missed with her parents without a thought for their happiness. Luna would accept no argument, not that Hermione gave her much of one, and the girls agreed she would stay for Christmas day and Boxing Day. Luna would have let her stay the whole break, but Hermione knew how important the alone time was for father and daughter, and didn't want to encroach too much.

* * *

Christmas at the Lovegood home turned out to be _exactly_ what Hermione needed. From the moment she came through the floo into their mismatched kitchen she felt… not quite at home, but as near to it as it was possible for her to be right now.

While Hermione had felt happily distracted while at the Burrow at the end of summer, it was nothing to the soothing effect of being at Luna’s home, especially seeing it transformed for the holidays. The decorations weren't like anything she had seen before; the whole house seemed to glow with luminous colour, as if fairy lights were hung in all corners. Except they weren't, nothing so pedestrian. Objects that Hermione had never seen littered every surface and the shiniest of silver paper stars hung from varying length cords, suspended from ceilings all over the house. The homemade element to the decorations added to the tactile feel of the setting, it felt so… real.

All three of them worked in the kitchen to put lunch together, using a clearly much-loved recipe book that Luna later explained had been her mother's. Hermione was dutifully delicate with the worn pages as she checked measurements and read little anecdotes scribbled into the margins that made her smile; ‘add extra sugar for Xeno’, ‘make sure Luna stays out of the stuffing’. Something pieced together in her mind later, the wonky cut of the stars, the producing of a book when they must have known the recipes by heart and the empty chair at the table when dinner was eventually served. In an unspoken way, the Lovegood’s made Pandora a part of their celebrations. Hermione wondered if it was things like this that Luna was referring to when she said she still saw her mother.

After lunch they sat in front of the fire, telling stories and opening presents, Hermione was overwhelmed by her pile, Xeno had apparently gone out to get her some additional things when he knew she would be a guest. She received a pair of warm flannel pyjamas, adorned with little purring cats, a huge bag of sweets and a nice quill set. Luna's present, as usual, was from the heart. She had made Hermione a homework and revision planner, but it was so much better than ones she had used before. Luna had worked on the book, embedding various charms that would set off alarms for assignment deadlines and colour coded timetables. It was the best gift Hermione had ever received.

Hermione hadn't been sure what to get for Xeno Lovegood; she had brought his present earlier in the year when she didn't know she would have to sit in front of him and explain it. With a small amount of trepidation, Hermione handed the large flat parcel over to him. "I wasn't sure what you would like, but this jumped out at me," she elucidated.

The gift was a considerable, hard backed, coffee table book of Muggle myths and legends, each with beautiful colour illustrations. As soon as he had unwrapped the simple paper it was evident she needn't have been concerned, Xeno looked absorbed from the moment he opened it and peppered Hermione with questions on some of the creatures featured for the rest of the day, The Loch Ness Monster was a particular source of interest. For Luna, Hermione had visited a jewellery shop that her dad always used to get her mother gifts. Though the owner had looked a little perplexed at the time, they happily took the order to create a pair of small silver earrings with radish charms hanging from them. At least these wouldn't rot.

Following a full day, the girls climbed into bed, both stuffed after too many biscuits and sweets. "Thank you for inviting me, I had the loveliest time," Hermione said as her head fell onto the fluffy purple pillows.

Luna smiled at her but then it faltered, “You know you can trust me don’t you?” she asked quietly, with one of her all-knowing glances piercing Hermione’s face.

“Of course,” Hermione assured gently wondering where her friend was going with this.

"Hermione, what happened over summer? Where are your parents?" Hermione panicked for a second, her source of anxiety wasn't that Luna knew, her friend would never tell anyone, she was more concerned that she had revealed something while at Hogwarts, without meaning too. As her heart rate sped up, Luna reached forward and grabbed her hand.

"Hermione… Hermione," she shook her gently, to break her from her panic, "It's ok, no one knows, _no one._ "

Hermione broke, _completely_ , for probably the first time since the third year when she had been overdoing it with the time-turner, only that time she had been alone. Her leaking tears quickly became sobs and Luna moved to sit, resting Hermione's head on her lap. It took a long time to get all of the words out, those that made it passed Hermione’s raw throat and racking sobs were thick and muffled, though Luna seemed to hear all she imparted without apparent difficulty. She told her everything about the notes , Professor Snape’s unexpected arrival and assistance. The only detail omitted was _where_ she had sent her parents, but that was more for her friend's safety than any lack of trust.

"Do you think they will ever forgive me?" Hermione asked in a tiny voice, it was a question she had heard in her mind a thousand times, yet it seemed so much graver when she spoke the words aloud.

Luna raised her hand and to stroke Hermione's unruly curls. "You can't focus on that now, when faced with a fork in your path you can only make your choice based on what you know at the time. You made the best decision you could, you picked the harder path, but you did it for them. Some would say that intentions matter as much as actions."

Hermione was quiet for a while, enjoying the feeling of having released some of the pressure that had been building since the beginning of the term. "Who do you think sent the other note?” she asked finally when she had calmed down sufficiently. “I don't know any Death Eaters, I didn't know Professor Snape was one, well a _proper one_ , until that night."

"Well, that's not strictly true,” Luna said thoughtfully, her gaze fixed outside of the window, “we met quite a few that night at The Department of Mysteries."

"I'm not sure having a wand pointed at you counts as _meeting someone,_ " Hermione countered.

"I'm not so sure, with the kind of passionate person you are, pointing a wand at someone, or having it pointed at you, could lead to a love affair." Hermione snorted, but her heart wasn't really in it. _Was that true?_ That didn't sound particularly stable; she attempted to calculate how many times over the years she had threatened her friends, either magically or physically... _oh, wow this might be a problem._

Luna leant over her while Hermione was lost in thought. "It couldn't have been anyone there, though, it must be someone else," she reasoned.

"But who?" Hermione asked, she had repeatedly drawn a blank herself, it wasn't as if she was on friendly terms with a whole bunch of Death Eaters.

Luna paused, her fingers stilling in Hermione’s hair. "If they wanted to warn you, they wanted to keep you safe, and I doubt we will make it through this year without getting into some trouble of some kind. I'm assuming they will pop again before long."

Hermione fell asleep clutching Luna's offered hand with no resolution in her mind as to whether or not that thought was a comforting one.

* * *

The Christmas break and time around people she loved had gone a long way to lifting Hermione's spirits. She had got back to the castle on Boxing Day, despite protests from Luna and Xeno, and planned to spend the last few days of blissful quiet, in the library, adding to her new planner.

The second day that she was there, sprawled out like she owned the place, even more so than usual, Cormac appeared. Hermione hadn't been aware he was staying over for the holidays, vaguely recalling that he usually went home, seeing as his family was based not far from the castle.

With a politeness she wasn't used to from him, he asked to join her and Hermione, finding no reason to refuse, accepted. Without an audience, she found Cormac a lot more engaging. He seemed more interested in a two-way discussion, and he did not regularly stop to glance around the room to see if anyone was looking at them. They discussed their recent breaks and even his current love for the Charms syllabus. Though when he asked Hermione to the next Hogsmeade weekend, she respectfully told him that she was going to be spending the next term focusing on her school work. He took it well, very well in fact, after only a few minutes he was asking about whether or not Ginny was available. _Boys._

All too soon for Hermione’s comfort, the students returned, and after an early breakfast on the day the Express was due, Hermione went to hide, with her books, in an abandoned classroom. Several hours passed without her realising and as such it was mid-afternoon before the door opened interrupting her solitude.

"How did you find me?" Hermione asked without thinking, inadvertently revealing that she had been hiding. Harry rather sheepishly lifted the worn folded parchment that she knew was the Marauder's Map. "Oh," she replied weakly, feeling more than a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, I wanted to see you, kind of realised we haven't had a proper chat in a while, but couldn't find you anywhere so had to resort to the map,” he said, lifting it again before pushing the folded parchment into his robes and rocking on his feet awkwardly. “So how are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks Harry, how was your holiday?" she asked with a sort of stiff cordiality that she usually reserved for her great Aunt, a woman that she disliked immensely.

"It was loud, everyone kind of on top of each other, you know what it's like?" he said, running a hand up the back of his neck. Harry looked uncomfortable, but his face had broken into a small grin when she had asked, _some amazing memory no doubt_ , Hermione thought a little bitterly.

"Yes, I suppose I do," she replied coolly.

"Err, so how was yours? You stayed here and then the Lovegoods on Christmas day?"

Hermione dropped her quill and sat back in her chair. "It was nice, different but nice," she answered honestly. The atmosphere between them felt cumbersome and unnatural, she knew it was pointless carrying on like this, but she didn't know what to say. She and Harry both loved each other, though she was sure he would never admit as much, that said, neither of them were particularly adept at social situations. In a way that's where Ron helped. Not that he was a great relationship navigator, but he tended just to ignore any and all convention and just bulldozed right through it.

"Look, I hope you didn't well… I don't want you to feel left out… I didn't think about it till I was away but well… I'm sorry," Harry stuttered out, not making eye contact.

"Ok Harry," Hermione said finally, she wasn't sure if she meant it, not totally, but she didn't want to fight with him either, and he looked so relieved at her small reassurance that she resolved to try her best to push the hurt that lingered aside.

"You should see what Ron got for Christmas from Lavender," Harry said with a wicked smile, clearly trying to direct the conversation onto a lighter hearted topic, "It's amazing."

Hermione didn't have to wait long to see the aforementioned gift; she was at breakfast the next day when Ron entered, it was the first time she had seen him since before the holidays, mainly by design, after her conversation with Harry she hadn't returned to the common room till rather late. Ron had a necklace on, visibly placed on the outside of his poorly button school shirt, the chain was made from a heavy gold with the word _sweetheart_ suspended from the chunky links. It was a while before Hermione realised she was staring.

"What is it? Oh," Ron asked looking down before he interpreted the direction of HErmione’s gaze and instantly stiffened. "Gift from Lavender... What, what do you think?" he asked wincing slightly as if expecting a cruel blow.

"It's-" Hermione willed herself to be a nice person and discounted the first five responses that jumped into her mind. "It's lovely Ron. She must... _really_ like you," she managed though the words felt like they coated her tongue. She'd save her giggles for Ginny later, after all, she was trying to be nice, not a saint.

* * *

All thoughts of turning over a new leaf and attempting kindness evaporated when Hermione saw Ron's prone form lying unconscious in the Hospital Wing. Hermione had spent far too much time viewing her friends in this way, pale, cold and lifeless. Hermione could feel rage building within her. Hermione had a sudden flash of her being a parent, Merlin she would be a nightmare if something like this happened to a child of hers. Almost as if there was something to Divination after all, that thought was immediately followed by the appearance of a harassed-looking Molly, clattering through swing doors, Professor Snape following quickly behind, he must have been called in case a potion was required like he had been after the fiasco at the Ministry.

The matriarch went to the other side of the bed from Hermione and grabbed Ron's other hand. "What happened?" she asked as she slumped into the chair.

Harry, who had been standing at the end the bed in something of a daze, Ginny and Luna on each side of him like book ends, filled them in about the love potion in the chocolates that morning, and the poisoned drink in Professor Slughorn's office. The story sounded so fantastical but in a school where an ancient beast, a maniacal government official, and a possessed teacher had already tried to kill them _what was a normal term?_

The doors swung open again, but none of the figures locked in the bedside vigil made any sign they had even heard it, until the person came to a screeching halt at the end of the bed. "Ron," a shrill voice called out, the noise reminiscent of nails dragging down a chalkboard.

Lavender Brown looked terrible. Hermione considered that she had never once thought that before, the girl was usually immaculate all the time, but not right them. Her hair was coming out of its ponytail, her face was red and blotchy, and she didn't have a single glittery, flouncy or juvenile accessory attached to her in anyway..

Lavender gripped the end, of the bed her fingers biting into the cold metal, and her eyes left her boyfriend’s face for a second to fall on where his hand was grasped between Hermione’s, her eyes hardened as she looked up at the brunette. Hermione's first instinct was to bristle and hold onto her place; she was his friend, she _deserved_ to be here as much as Lavender did, more so. But before she could puff herself up she deflated, entirely, something Hermione had seen in the other girls face when she came in, the hurt that was clear as day. _Maybe there were more to Lavender’s feelings than she had given her credit for?_ Either way, this was no longer her place.

Hermione turned back to look at Ron and squeezed his hand slightly, "I'll be back later" she muttered, almost under her breath, and stood to leave the ward, not noticing the astonished faces of Lavender and her friends or that Professor Snape had fallen silently  into step beside her.

"I hadn't expected I would live to see you back down from any situation, Miss Granger," he drawled.

Hermione started slightly, having not expected his voice, or the nature of his comment, she paused her steps and looked up, the professor’s face was its usual expressionless mask before he raised an eyebrow at her. She wasn't sure if it was in challenge or with amusement.

"I wasn't backing down,” she defended quietly, he may have helped her when she needed it, but that didn't make her any more confident speaking around him. “I was stepping aside, I think, not out of the picture... just maybe, not in its centre anymore." His eyes flashed with a look of surprise, but she had no desire to continue the conversation at that moment, feeling as she did. Hermione averted her eyes and with a quick muttered, "Sir," walked away in the direction of the Tower.

* * *

Once Ron had been released from the Hospital Wing relations between the three friends reverted to much more affable ground. Seeing Ron in that state, knowing how wrong things could have gone made Hermione regret some of her behaviour towards him in the last few weeks. True, he could be a royal pain, but he was still part of her life, and if Lavender made him happy so be it. Lavender had also thawed towards Hermione slightly, they were hardly up at night swapping gossip and braiding each other's hair, but there had been considerably less glaring. All in all, Hermione was confident that with several years practise she could enjoy dinner at their home without chewing her arm off in frustration. Maybe.

She had also reluctantly agreed with Harry that Draco was likely involved in the incident that had seen Ron hurt, somehow. What the Slytherin was trying to achieve she didn't know, while Harry maintained his evil motivations Hermione was less certain. She had only been convinced of his entanglement due to the sloppy nature of the plans that had been carried out. No true Death Eater would have been so careless, though she knew Draco was intelligent, Hermione couldn't settle on whether the mistakes were attributable to his lack of experience or whether it was an indicator that his heart wasn't in it.  

Having moved passed a lot of the friction between them, the trio began to spend a little more time together. That morning Harry had asked them to go outside, considering the unpleasantness of the weather Hermione assumed the location had been picked for privacy, so it was with some trepidation that she sought out blankets and school books to take down to the lake. The day was one of the last real frosts, where you could see the hope of spring breaking through winters choke hold on the castle grounds.

Hermione and Ron remained totally silent as Harry told them everything about his private lessons with Dumbledore. She had been told snippets before but never everything, and as Dumbledore had only just made it clear to Harry what the purpose of the repeated trips into the Pensieve were for she wouldn't have been expected to put it together before now.

Her mind ticked over, cataloguing the information on Voldemort's family, the task to get Professor Slughorn's memory and how he had now seen it. It took a while for all of the information to sink in. When it did the only thing she could register was fear. _Voldemort was a half-blood? He created Horcruxes? What the bloody hell is a Horcrux?_ Even without knowing everything Hermione knew it was all going to change, everything Professor Snape had said to her as they stood equidistant in the sunrise came flooding back. ‘The world around us is on the cusp of becoming very dark again Miss Granger’.

"Dumbledore believes this is what will help us win, _finally_ win, get rid of him altogether. I think this is going to be my task next year," Harry imparted gravely.

"Our task," Ron and Hermione said together, she didn't miss how Harry looked unconvinced, but they would work on that, this shouldn't have been his responsibility, but she was damn certain he wasn't going to undertake it alone.

* * *

Hermione was awoken from dreams by what sounded like knocking on the dormitory door, at first she was sure she had misheard, but then the noise sounded again, clearer this time, as her mind was pulled from slumber. Lavender snuffled but made no other sound to indicate she had fully woken up, and Hermione wiped the sleep from her eyes roughly with the sleeve of her oversized pyjamas and went to the door.

Harry was standing in the corridor, looking worse than she had ever seen him, he resembled a ghost his skin was so pale, dirty tear tracks ran down his cheeks, his clothes were soaking, and covered in what looked like dirt and _was that blood?_ His expression was so weirdly vacant for a moment Hermione thought he had been cursed.

"Mione," he managed, before he doubled over, crumpling as if he would fall straight to the ground. Reacting as quickly as she could, she tried to break his fall, he was a lot broader than her, so she managed to cushion him more than catch him, but it was better than a direct impact would have been. His face had taken on a faint green tinge, and so Hermione half dragged him through the girl's dorm until she got him into the bathrooms where he was sick, a lot. She needed to get him out of there, Lavender and Parvati going into hysterics at there being a boy in the dorm would not help whatever serious situation this was. Once Harry appeared to have nothing left to bring up, she stood with him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and began the slow progress to the sixth year boy's dorm. Hermione had briefly contemplated getting a Professor, but something told her not to. After getting him through the door without disturbing the slumbering boys, she sat him on what must have been his bed and moved as quietly as her panting breath would allow to Ron’s side.

After a considerable amount of time shaking him, Ron opened his eyes, clearly ready to launch an attack at whoever had disturbed him, though when he registered it was her Ron sat bolt upright in bed. "Mione, what are you doing here?" he said, _far too loudly._

"Shhh… Ron, it's Harry, I don't know what's wrong, but he needs a shower and some fresh clothes," she gestured to Harry, sat in his bed and the accusing look fell off Ron's face when he registered the state of his friend, morphing into a look of determination.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, much more quietly this time

“I have no idea, he just turned up at my dorm like this, can you take him?”

Ron nodded gravely, his eyes not leaving Harry as he jumped up from his bed. "Come on mate,” he said gently laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “let's get you showered, yeah?"

Ron moved Harry with a great deal more ease than Hermione had been able, and disappeared into the corridor that led off to the boy's bathrooms. Once she could no longer hear their progress Hermione felt quite awkward in the dorm and contemplated leaving, but Harry had come to _her_ door first, she needed to make sure he was alright before she left.

What felt like hours later Ron re-emerged, still part dragging Harry, he looked a little better though he was still so unresponsive she and Ron had to practically dress him in his night clothes. Once Hermione had pulled the covers over Harry’s shoulders she kissed his cheek and made to leave, but as she stepped away from the bed, his arm jerked out and gripped her desperately.

"Please stay," he pleaded. Harry’s voice was so raw it reminded Hermione of the night in the Hospital Wing, after Sirius had died, and she knew she wouldn't be able to say no, no matter the number of rules she was breaking. She nodded slowly and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and Harry immediately shifted, in movements minutes ago she wouldn't have thought him capable of and pulled her under the covers, so quickly she only just suppressed a squeak of surprise. Hermione settled in front of him, their heads facing each other, and she could just make out his blank face in the darkness. After long minutes he shuffled forward and gripped both of her hands tightly, his grasp almost at the point of painful.

"I did something bad," Harry muttered into her ear, his words sounding so childlike. "Malfoy and me, he was in a bathroom… I saw him, we shouted at each other, then I sent a spell that I had seen in that potions book," Hermione felt ice grip her heart, _what had happened?_

Harry breathed in a ragged breath. "It was bad… He… Malfoy he… collapsed, there was blood _everywhere_ , Snape found us… he knew the countercurse but he… it was so bad and there was so much blood and I… and I thought I'd killed him."

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,_ was all Hermione could think on a loop. If Professor Snape was there and he had somehow managed not to kill Harry then Malfoy must be ok… or at least would be.

Hermione removed her hands from Harry’s death grip and hugged him very tight, soon his breathing evened out, and she pulled away slightly. She locked eyes with Ron across the room, his face reflected the horror she felt, Hermione knew Harry needed comfort right now, but when he had calmed down, she was going to shake the crap out of him for being _so bloody stupid._

* * *

Hermione woke up before any of the boys the next day, a miracle as she had barely slept. Retreating to her room for a shower and a quick change of clothes she made up her mind to seek out Ginny, as the lesser of the two uncomfortable meetings she had to complete that day. That she had woken up in Harry Potter's bed was likely to be all around Gryffindor Tower by lunchtime, Ginny had a fiery temper, and was very liable to hex first and ask questions later. Though Hermione was confident Ginny understood the platonic nature of her friendship with Harry, the redhead had been in love with him since her first year, and that did funny things to people.

Seeing her in the common room Hermione let out a sigh of relief before tugging Ginny out of the castle and down to the Herbology Greenhouses; nobody needed to overhear this conversation. As the girl’s sat in the damp, dewy grass Hermione told her all about what had happened the night before, leaving nothing out. Harry might not be happy with her for doing so but whether he would admit it or not he needed Ginny's support. Despite looking slightly uncomfortable during parts of the monologue, Ginny kept quiet until the end.

"Thank you for telling me," she whispered, her fingers twiddling through blades of grass.

Hermione smiled and gripped one of her hands, "I hope you understand Ginny, nothing _would ever_ happen between me and Harry, he's like my brother."

"I know,” Ginny confirmed quietly, “I... I broke up with Dean," she admitted, staring at her knees

"Okay,” Hermione said, drawing out the word for a long time, “Do you think it's time now?"

"Maybe, I think he's waited enough... and maybe so have I."

Hermione nodded, "There was another reason I told you all this," she admitted.

"Why's that?" Ginny asked, looking back at her thoughtfully.

"I need you to get that book from him, and get rid of it. I thought you would be able to explain better than I could about that sort of thing," Hermione elaborated gently, they didn't speak about Tom Riddle’s diary, but if anyone could understand her concerns, it would be Ginny.

The younger girl looked very sombre for a moment but nodded, a hint of determination flashing across her face and Hermione knew she had given this task to the right person. Harry would have waved off her own apprehension, but he would listen to Ginny. Or rather, _Ginny would make him listen._

* * *

Hermione was a lot less confident as she stood outside the dungeon classroom, wearing a near hole in her bottom lip. She wasn't sure if Professor Snape would be here, he had office hours, like all the other teachers, but when it came to the Gryffindors, Hermione was fairly certain they were hypothetical. Giving herself a little shake she knocked on the door and waited for his silky drawl to bid her enter.

She moved into the room silently, and considered shutting the door behind her but thought better of it; she may have to make a hasty retreat. When Professor Snape finally looked up from his pile of marking he didn’t display any surprise at her sudden appearance, despite her never having visited his offices before, well, when he was there. Instead, he scoffed a little, and she assumed he was about to make a caustic remark, but under the circumstances, she couldn't blame him.

“Does it ever bother you, Miss Granger, that you are the only one of them with a conscious?”

Hermione winced slightly but caught it before she would give away how close his words had hit. He may have been an absolute bastard, most of the time, but he was an accurate one, for the most part. “I wondered if I might ask how Malfoy was, Sir?”

“And you came to me?” he questioned, putting down his quill and steepling his fingers in front of him on the desk.

She nodded, “I wasn’t sure the Hospital Wing was advisable, it was unlikely that I would have been welcome, especially after… last night.”

“How much do you know?” Professor Snape asked coldly, and Hermione looked up to meet his eyes.

“Enough I... Sir, I wanted to apolo-”

“- don’t,” he sighed, cutting her off and raising his hands in front of himself to stress the command. “Mr Malfoy will be fine, albeit scarred, _permanently_ , but fine. You can leave the room with your little Gryffindor conscious clear.”

Hermione wanted to rail against him, shout at the absurdity of him attacking her, but she didn't. The night before he’d had to save one of his students from a potentially fatal wound and they both knew the likelihood of anything drastic happening to Harry was slim to none.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said eventually, backing towards the door. “Thank you for your time.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, Hermione watched with a wistful smile as Harry and Ginny entered the portrait hole together, holding hands somewhat shyly. They bumped shoulders awkwardly and Hermione bit back a giggle at the blush that covered both their cheeks. Considering the state he had been in the night before Harry looked so blissfully happy. Ron began to make noises of protest beside her, but Hermione kicked him.

"Ron I am _incredibly tired,_ I do not have my normal capacity to give you an impassioned speech, so I'm just going to give you the main points and ask that you fill in the blanks yourself. Coming for ages, practically adults, we’re about to go to war, none of your business and finally, we have _all_ had to be in the front row to a lot worse scenes from you and Lavender, so button it."

Ron opened and closed his mouth several times but eventually pushed himself back in his chair crossing his arms grumpily over his chest. Hermione looked back over to the fledgeling couple and locked eyes with Ginny who gave her a tiny nod from across the room. Well, at least that was one thing taken care of.

* * *

This time there were no bangs, crashes or explosions. The second breakout of Azkaban was almost sedate in comparison to the elaborate fanfare of the first. Antonin supposed that made sense, the breakout in the first instance had been about display, one army’s demonstration of reach and power. None of that was necessary now.

Antonin was lying on his cot in a position he had perfected over his near decade and a half of prison experience when a loud pop sounded in the cell, and Yaxley appeared, dusting off his large coat in the middle of the box. Antonin stared at him, unblinkingly, he knew it was entirely possible that his friend was in fact there, though he wasn't sure he completely trusted himself to hope.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Reuben remarked dryly, eyeing the crumbling brickwork with disdain before throwing some warm clothing at Antonin’s chest.

"Right, let's get the niceties out of the way, shall we? I am Reuben Yaxley, I have known you since you were eleven, unbelievably _I am_ standing in this cell, and it's time to go, this time through the front door," he rattled off never breaking eye contact.

 _Real then_ Antonin accepted, he may have known the man most of his life, but he could never have imagined his blasé attitude so completely in a hallucination.

Antonin looked at his friend, "Before you ask, I don't think I'm any madder than when you last saw me," he rasped.

Yaxley smirked at him disbelievingly, "That's debatable, the last time I saw you, you were headed off to an _easy_ mission at the Ministry, and the next I knew an envelope was being dropped inside my robes."

"How is she?" Antonin asked as he pulled himself off the cot trying to ignore the way his knees screamed in protest.

"Who?" Reuben asked impassively though his eyes shone with amusement.

"Don't play with me," Antonin growled. He had thought of almost nothing but her since he had been put back in this hole. The letter to Yax had been his last ditch attempt to right his wrong, the only power he could exercise to try and see her protected, till he could come back to do it himself.

"Please, Antonin,” Reuben replied unconcerned, “you've been in a cell for months, you're physically diminished, and you have no wand. At least make sure you're properly dressed before you start threatening people, especially me, and anyway I’m offended, shouldn’t you be asking how I am, you ungrateful wanker?"

 _Definitely Yaxley,_ Antonin thought with exasperation.

Antonin levelled a hard glance at him, and Reuben sighed. "She's fine, well, she’s alive, though it was touch and go for a while, the girl attracts trouble," he said without rebuke in his tone, For men like them that was hardly a criticism, of course she attracted trouble, she had attracted _him_.

"How close has she come?" Antonin asked hesitantly, anything that had happened would have been his fault, he should have been able to protect her.

"Pretty close once so far, there is another plan, she isn't the target, but she will be there. We need to catch up."

Antonin nodded. Here we go again.  



	10. Chapter 10

Harry was going to leave the castle.

He had come to see Hermione and Ron earlier that evening and told them of Dumbledore's plan to get the next Horcrux, a locket, supposedly located in a cave that Tom Riddle had visited as a child, behind some unknown enchantments. There was too much vagueness in the ‘plan’ for Hermione’s liking, not, she thought with some irritation, that she had a say. Harry would follow where the headmaster led, and something told Hermione they would facing obstacles of a very different magnitude than they had when trying to get to the Philosopher’s Stone in their first year.

Hermione knew Harry was capable. While he might not have been an _applied student_ he was naturally gifted when it came to defensive and offensive magic, and he was going with the headmaster, who despite his slipperiness, was by all accounts a formidable opponent. After all, he had defeated Grindelwald, and even Voldemort himself was said to fear him, though Hermione never knew if that was true, she wondered if Voldemort could even feel an emotion that human anymore. Hermione hadn't seen Dumbledore duel the Dark Lord at the Ministry, on account of having her chest slashed, rendering her unconscious. Those that had been there were said to be blown away by the raw power both had displayed.

She may not have trusted Dumbledore's motives, but she did trust him with Harry's safety. Hermione just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was possible that it was a simple case of the timing, it had been nearly twelve full months without a serious attack on any of their lives. If you didn't count Ron’s near death experience after the poisoning, or Harry’s repeated attempts at suicide via Professor Snape’s ire.

Hermione went to bed, her mind still whirling, leaving her unsettled, so when Professor McGonagall came to her dorm to wake her, she was alert and dressed in seconds. Her Head of House's explanation was brief, there had been a breach of the castle wards and she was going to call the Order, she needed Hermione to get all of the students in the Tower secured, along with the other Prefects.

Hermione quickly carried out her assigned task, anxious to get moving; she _needed_ to find Harry, if Death Eaters were responsible _and really, who else would think to break into the castle?_ He would be their likely target. After calming the younger students and warding them inside the highest dorm rooms, Hermione cast as many cloaking and defensive spells as she could muster before slipping back into her dorm to retrieve her DA coin. She flicked it over in her fingers for a while, considering the best course of action before resolving herself and sending a quick message.

Ron and Neville were already waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Hermione got into the common room. "Where to?" Neville asked, and Hermione stilled at the sound of his voice. It was the first time he had spoken to her, directly, since Slughorn's Party. Her heart did a little leap of gladness, but this was not the time to focus on that now.

"Room of Requirement, that's where Harry has seen Draco hanging around this year. It's as good a bet as any," she replied.

Neville only nodded and looked away again, Hermione pushed down the hurt she felt, it was her fault, once again she reminded herself of what they had to do. As they made to leave Ginny came down the stairs, and after a quick, but heated, exchange with her brother the four Gryffindor's headed out. Hermione opened the portrait hole, as softly as possible, and spied Luna waiting for them in the corridor. The blonde smiled at them, though her eyes were troubled and Hermione flicked a quick look around the otherwise empty hall. No one else from the DA had come.

She swallowed back her nervousness when she realised the group was the same as the end of last year, and worse still, it appeared that in Harry's absence they were all looking at her, Hermione instantly hated it, _she wasn't a leader._

"Let's go," she said with a confidence she didn't feel.

The students made their way to the seventh-floor corridor, Hermione’s fear ratcheting with every corner they turned. The castle was too quiet, it was the calm before the inevitable storm, everything was going to change from that night. Unbelievably, Hermione felt a greater sense of foreboding than at any other time in her life, even while walking into the Ministry, the year before, she had not had this level of nausea. The threat wasn't just out in the open anymore, it was coming to them, invading a place that Hermione had felt safe.

They got to the Room of Requirement in time to see the Order had arrived and a battle had already broken out; there was no more time for introspection, Death Eaters were in the castle. _How had they even gotten in?_ A flash of white blond hair went past and then Hermione saw Draco, his face paler than ever and his mouth set in a grim line. Neville and Ron reacted immediately, wands raised as they stalked forward, but the Slytherin disappeared in a cloud of what was instantly recognisable as Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. If she survived this, Hermione would have a word with the Twins about the clientele.

Within minutes the combat had scattered wider than the seventh-floor corridor, with little pockets and skirmishes breaking out all over the castle. Hermione, Luna and Ginny were working as a team, standing with their backs to each other, assisting the Order where possible. They had all separated in the Ministry, and that had been the first of many mistakes, they needed to say in small groups as long as possible. They weren't strong enough on their own, but together maybe they could endure this.

It dawned on Hermione, as she repeatedly cast shields that there were not enough Death Eaters present to suggest their aim was to take over Hogwarts. There were even less than had been sent to the Department of Mysteries, which could only indicate they were here for an express purpose. The knowledge made Hermione fear for Harry all the more.

None of them were wearing masks, Hermione supposed as this was now open war it no longer mattered. Everyone knew who the members of the other side were, though Hermione only recognised Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange from the Ministry. Rabastan she only saw up close briefly before he flew down a corridor pursuing Professor Lupin.

Hermione had a tiny moment to be impressed at seeing some of the Order duel; she had been unconscious when they had shown at the last battle and seeing them now was slightly breathtaking. Professor Lupin was in a word, incredible. Though his prowess shouldn't have been a surprise, he had been their Defence Professor after all. His worn appearance made you underestimate his raw power. He displayed an economy of movement that was fascinating; he achieved everything with the slightest flick of his wand and insubstantial turns of his form. His entire demeanour gave the impression of a person barely trying.

His style and manner were in direct contrast to his opponent; Rabastan Lestrange duelled like he was sword fighting or possibly even dancing. The dark wizard’s wand arched and slashed through the air, his arm regularly at full extension. He used every available surface to crouch, jump behind or spring from. Though it wasn't just for show, he was obviously capable, and though the complete opposite of her Professor his display was just as intimidating. While Professor Lupin's expression was calm and assessing Rabastan's was manic and scattered, he seemed to _live_ every motion, every cast spell highlighting his overly expressive face with bolts of vibrant colour.

Facing the Death Eaters this time was more frightening, even with the Order being present from the off. There were a good few that did not seem particularly stable that Hermione recognised from the posters in Hogsmeade and the Daily Prophet after the Azkaban breakout. While sending a hex in the direction of a large Death Eater duelling Bill Weasley she felt Luna stiffen beside her, and Hermione turned to see Fenrir Greyback at the end of the corridor. The darkness surrounding him was palpable, hate and bloodlust seemed to roll off his savage frame in waves, Greyback stood so tall and looked so feral, it was hard to know where the man ended and the wolf began, if there was even a line between them now. His tangled hair fell way past his shoulders, and in areas was matted, by substances Hermione didn't want to think about. His mouth was already smeared with blood, and truly canine teeth glinted in the dim light. Hermione felt her blood run cold.

She looked around, assessing where her friends were. Ginny had moved off with Ron and Neville, and so Hermione grabbed Luna's hand and made to get out of the corridor, to put as much distance between them and the wolf as was possible. Their terror dictated the pace, and the girls were soon several minutes away, on the other side of the castle. While they may have been able to hold off some of the Death Eaters while working as a team, Hermione doubted their chances against Greyback.

Though they ran until their legs burned it was clearly not far enough to be out of danger, it wasn't long before they crossed paths with the great hulking figure of Thorfinn Rowle, _out of the frying pan_ Hermione thought desperately. Rowle's face took on a devious smirk when he saw the two of them, and Hermione tugged at Luna to get her to follow as they retreated as fast as they could down the corridor, both casting as shields rather than anything offensive.

Rowle pursued them, and if anything he seemed to be enjoying the chase; in spite of his frame, he was incredibly light on his feet. Hermione was beginning to question if they would make it out of there when a suit of armour clattered on the ground at the other side of the hall, and at the sudden movement Rowle spun and cast before even looking up, and Hermione stilled as she watched the green spark light up the dark area.

A Death Eater, Hermione didn't know who, fell to the ground with a low thud. Comprehension of what he had done settled on Rowle and in the momentary confusion Luna pulled Hermione violently, and the two darted away as fast as they could. They made it to a corridor that was thankfully devoid of any sign of the chaos that was currently overrunning the other areas of the castle, and Hermione and Luna sank against the nearest wall to catch their breath. There were no fitness classes at the school in the wizarding word, and Hermione was beginning to realise the potential danger in that. She needed to work out what to do next, to find out whether Harry had made it back.

She was dimly aware of the sound of footsteps but quicker than Hermione could react a large, firm hand was gripping her shoulder. She spun around to face her attacker, but unlike the others, but he was wearing a mask. She struggled fiercely, but it was like trying to blow on an established oak tree to knock it down, whoever was holding her was just too strong. Hermione changed tack and screamed at Luna to run, but her friend stubbornly refused to move. The imposing figure, seeing Luna’s lack of retreat, gripped her as well and pushed both the struggling girls down the corridor. Hermione’s mind was producing a list of the worst possible people they could be taken to when unexpectedly the rough hand released her shoulder, and shoved Luna and herself behind one of the tapestries, hiding them from view.

Hermione looked up only to see her face reflected in the shiny surface, looking a picture of confusion.

"Stay here," his gruff voice commanded, and before they could say anything else the figure was gone.

"Hermione," Luna whispered, "I know you want to find Harry, but I think we should do what he said," she implored quietly.

Hermione was still attempting to regulate her breathing, "Who was he?" she asked mystified.

"I don't know but he's hidden us, and we don't even know where to start looking for Harr-"

Luna cut off abruptly as the sound of heavy, clunking footfalls reverberated around the space. As quietly as possible the girls shifted themselves to move further back from the tapestry covering the alcove. Hermione felt the cold stone of the castle walls permeate her clothes, as she covered her mouth and nose with her hand in an effort to stifle the sounds of her laboured breaths, and gestured for Luna to do the same. She didn't want to risk casting anything in case the movement was detected.

Hermione heard a large inhale of breath, then the dark, animalistic, taunting voice of Fenrir Greyback surrounded them. "Well, what do we have here?" he all but barked, Hermione didn't need to see his face to know that he was grinning.

Luna moved slightly next to her, and Hermione turned to see her friend’s eyes wide and unblinking. It was strange to see Luna afraid, she normally never even registered negative emotions, the desire to protect her washed over Hermione and she reached out to grab her hand, squeezed and shifted to position herself slightly in front of her.

"Oh, you don't have to make a noise darlings I can smell you," he continued, and Hermione felt bile rise in her throat. _Not him, please not him_. The stories relating to Greyback in the Daily Prophet were always the worst. Most of the Death Eaters could be described as sadistic but Greyback was something more. It wasn't just that he got pleasure from depravity, it was as if he needed it to survive. Death at his hands would be slow and bloody; he would break them.

The footfalls began to move closer. "There are two of you? How marvelous," Greyback shouted, Hermione heard another deep inhale, "one of you smells like summer the other like winter… it's going to be _so hard_ to pick who goes first."

Hermione shuffled until she was completely in front of Luna, unconsciously pushing her friend's body further back into the wall.

"You’re young aren't you? I do hope so; I was promised blossoming flesh tonight."

How much of what Greyback was saying was the beginning to the torture and how much was down to him just liking the sound of his own voice, Hermione couldn't be sure.

The footsteps suddenly quickened and Hermione suppressed a scream, she and Luna grasped at each other desperately, she wanted to be brave, she was a Gryffindor, but she felt almost paralysed by fear, her mind hadn't seen enough horrors to even begin to wonder what a man like that… well, he was more creature than man now, would have in store for them.

He was so close now Hermione could hear his breathing; it was heavy, _he was excited?_ She gripped Luna tightly and shut her eyes.

"It’s show time _dog_ … get to the Astronomy Tower, Bella is calling for you," a crisp voice rang out, and Hermione started at the unfamiliar sound.

"I don't answer to _her_ like you and your brother… _I'm busy,_ " Greyback snarled

"Fine… I'll be sure to tell her you were _too busy,_ " the unknown voice threatened.

The corridor fell silent, and Hermione could imagine the two of them facing each other down. "Fine," Greyback snapped finally, and Hermione heard his boots pound back down to the other end of the corridor. She let out the breath she had been holding and opened her eyes, but before she could even ask Luna if she was ok, the tapestry was yanked back, _hard_. Hermione almost bit her lip as she came face to face with a smirking Rabastan Lestrange.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked brightly, _Merlin, was that line in the ‘How to be a Death Eater’ handbook?_

Rabastan leant forward, and on instinct, Hermione pushed Luna further from view and raised her wand. She was still frightened but not as incapacitated as she had been with Greyback, Rabastan might torture them, but she was pretty sure she wasn't about to get eaten, at least she hoped that was the case. When his hand came forward Hermione assumed he was moving for her neck so was shocked rigid when he pulled one of her curls between his fingers and tugged on the strand gently. She pulled herself away from him, grabbing her hair and yanking it from his grasp aggressively.

"Oh, you've got spark," Rabastan said, his eyes appraising her, "that does make this more interesting." Disregarding Hermione's wand aimed at his chest he leant around her to look at Luna, who by this point had probably sustained more damage from Hermione's vigorous defence that their fighting. "Hello little sprite,” he greeted with a soft smile, “I remember you," he said faintly, and Hermione lifted her wand higher.

More footsteps sounded, these sharp and clipped, and Hermione couldn't take this anymore, _would someone just kill them and get it over with!_

"Lestrange, move," a dark voice drawled, and Hermione was sure she had never felt more grateful to hear the tones of Professor Snape. She should have been as terrified as before but she wasn't, and when she registered Luna's shoulders sag she knew the feeling was mutual.

Rabastan turned to face her, his nose being mere inches from her face. She thought she saw his eyes soften. " _Hermione_ … I," he began urgently.

"Now, Lestrange, it's time," Professor Snape snapped.

Rabastan looked like he wanted to say something, but then his mouth closed, shaking his head in frustration. He stood back from the alcove not breaking his gaze from her face and then turned to fix a look of pure contempt at the Potions Master, body checking him on his way down the corridor, and walking in the direction he had sent Greyback moments earlier. Hermione’s mind was reeling, he'd said her name, _why?_ The way he looked at her, none of it made sense.

Hermione was pulled from her wayward thoughts by Professor Snape leaning forward and grabbing both of her shoulders under a painful grip. "Miss Granger, what are you doing here? You should be warded in the Tower," he bit out urgently.

"Sir, I," she tried.

" _You will get out of here,_ " he commanded, his voice taking on a flat steely edge that made her remember how frightening he could be. Neither she nor Luna made a movement. "Do you hear me?" His voice raised, and he shook her slightly. "Go back to the Tower, take her with you, and don't get caught, if one of them gets hold of you, they will kill you, but not before _playing with you first._ "

The professor glanced around Hermione to look at Luna and then back again more softly. "I understand that you want to protect them all, but while they are on your side they have pure blood, the Dark Lord will not spill it with the same delighted freedom that he would yours."

Hermione nodded, incapable of speech, then he released her shoulders and stormed down the corridor, his robes undulating behind him.

“Sir,” she called, finding her voice finally. Professor Snape didn't stop, but she knew he had heard her.

“Be careful, Sir.”

* * *

Antonin was back at Malfoy Manor, a place he had grown to hate in his youth for it's over the top frippery,and it’s pontificating inhabitants. He had to stay there, he had been _ordered_ to, and only that order would have kept him there at this point, the second stint in prison had not softened his demeanour any. At least he could console himself that it wasn't a permanent stay. The war was out in the open, in a few more days he could stay with Yaxley, at his townhouse, until they knew which way the wind was blowing. Antonin could have gone back to his own, but he had no desire to be by himself for long periods at the moment, he knew it would be awhile before he was back on an even keel, or as close as he ever got in any case. No, solitude would not have a calming effect on his turbulent emotions

Antonin paced the carpeted floor, not sparing a glance for how his rough boots were crunching the elaborately patterned textile under foot. He hadn't been assigned to be part of the Hogwarts contingent. Of the recently released Death Eaters, only Rabastan had been sent along. His Lord had seemingly gone with shock value rather than competency for the mission; Antonin supposed that made sense, they were not looking to overthrow the school entirely, at least not tonight. The aim was to subdue the castle occupants so they could get to Dumbledore, the sight of Bellatrix and Greyback entering from the inside would probably be enough to do that. The rest were just extras, braying dogs that needed ‘exercise’, or the few that had been sent to make sure everything didn't derail completely.

His Lord had _other plans_ for him; he wanted Antonin working with Yaxley on getting into the Ministry, though Antonin would not be able to infiltrate himself, his face was too well known, he was to help with the strategy. He had tried to work a little after the Hogwarts contingent had left but it had been a fruitless endeavour, Antonin couldn't entirely control the shaking of this hands yet. Despite many, many warm showers, he still felt as if the cold from the prison rock was seeping into his bones, into his blood. He knew he wasn't well enough yet to do anything useful, knew it was the right decision for him not to go that evening, but he couldn't help feeling bitter about it.

_She would be there_ . Definitely. He could have seen her and explained, checked her over and… Well, the rest of what he would have done was slightly lost on him at the moment. However, Antonin had no doubt over what he _wanted_ to do. He dreamt of taking her, locking her up somewhere until all of this was over. Then he could find a way to make her safe no matter who won.

_Yep, not up to strategy work just yet_.

Antonin threw the quill he had been twisting between his fingers onto the top of the desk and stalked towards the dining room that had once been set aside for the briefings, following the last breakout. Once inside he padded up to the sideboard and in jerky moves poured himself a generous helping of firewhisky. Antonin wasn't bothering with building up a tolerance for it this time, events were going to escalate quickly, and from experience, he knew that would mean little sleep and heavy drinking. He sat himself down in one of the high-back chairs and sagged, _she was so close now_ , so close his skin itched. He _needed_ to see her. Antonin didn't want to think about what would happen if one of them got hold of her. His only comfort was that Reuben had gone, he knew his friend would carry out his wishes, even if he didn't understand them.

Antonin was disturbed from his spiralling thoughts by the door opening and Rodolphus Lestrange entering the room, upon spotting Antonin in the chair directly facing him Dolph paused in the doorway. The two men confronted each other silently, both faces impassive, they hadn't seen each other since the night at the Department of Mysteries.

Rodolphus looked worn but still like himself; he had endured as much of Azkaban as Antonin had, coming out of the other side affected, but not broken. He was a tall man, and broad, his sandy hair fell into his eyes, and it would appear that he had decided to keep the full beard he had gained in prison, though a much-neatened version. He remained standing calmly in the doorway, and Antonin thought he could almost see the cogs turning in Lestrange's mind, he obviously did not want to walk in any further in, but would not have wanted to retreat either, that would have displayed weakness.

Antonin sat further back in his chair, a sign of a confident ease, as he assessed how this could play out. Rodolphus was more tranquil than his brother, at least in appearances. Rabastan had long been renowned for having a quick temper, and a complete inability to keep his mouth closed when agitated. Rodolphus was the opposite, he never lost his cool, which made him all the more dangerous, much like Antonin he saved up grievances and sought out revenge when the anger had thawed.

After a moment more silent contemplation Antonin broke the tension, this conversation needed to happen, he wanted answers, and it was best to do so with the least inhabitants around to poke their nose in. "Good to see you Rodolphus, how was your... time away?" he inquired lightly.

"Same as yours, I would wager, Antonin," Rodolphus sighed and moved into the room, turning to shut the door behind him. He walked to the sideboard, and like Antonin had done earlier, poured himself a drink before sinking into the chair opposite the Russian wizard, motioned with his hand as he took a hearty swig, giving Antonin the indication he should speak.

"Let's get straight to it then, why did your brother punch me in the face the night of the last battle?" Antonin kept his voice neutral; he wanted information, not retribution, that would come later.

Rodolphus swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "You would have to ask him."

Antonin was slightly surprised by the answer, though resolutely did not show it. It was not unusual for Rodolphus to be approached by others who had complaints about Rabastan's behaviour, and he always dealt with the situation calmly, and as honestly as possible. Antonin imagined it came of being brought up to be the Head of House and a much older sibling. He didn't care for the evasive attitude of the older wizard.

"Don't play games with me, I haven't gone soft, and you've seen me in action enough to know what I'm capable of," Antonin threatened evenly.

Rodolphus groaned as if he was bored of the conversation, but Antonin did not miss the way his fingers rapped against the outside of his glass, he was covering up his anxiety. "Rab lost it that night, the thought of going back to Azkaban everything, he just lost it."

"I understand that of course. But that doesn't explain why he hit _me_ . Why, with everyone there, he walked the whole line to step in front of _me_. Or why his extreme reaction seemed to be triggered by McNair having spotted the Mudb-"

Rodolphus stood hastily from his seat knocking the table in the process. "It is a _House_ matter _Dolohov,_ " he hissed, practically bearing his teeth, "and it's _none_ of your business."

_Got you,_ Antonin thought smugly. "It became my business when he broke my nose." Antonin was beginning to let some of his frustration seep into his tone.

They were still glaring at each other when the door opened again, and Yaxley walked through, looking hardly worse for wear for having been involved in a complex mission. "Sorry to break up... whatever this is,” he said waving a hand between the agitated wizards, “but we're back and he has called a full meeting."

The men reluctantly broke the intense stare and Rodolphus dropped his glass to the table before stalking out of the room without a word.

"Lovers quarrel?" Reuben asked, eyebrows raised.

Antonin lifted his glass and drained the remains of the contents. "Whatever it was that affected him when we got out last time, and Rabastan at the Ministry, _she's_ at the heart of it."

Reuben brushed a hand over his face. "Just what we need another complication,” he leant against the wall regarding Antonin with his head tilted to one side, “You're sure about this? There are thousands of less complicated witches out there."

"I'm sure," Antonin said resolutely.

"Fine,” Yaxley conceded nodding, “then she becomes part of the manifesto."

"What's the manifesto?"

"So far it's a piece of parchment that says 'get out of this alive and free', with a hastily added note at the bottom, 'with the girl'."

Antonin nodded, Lestrange or not Hermione was now non-negotiable.

* * *

Hermione stared out at the ornate, white, tomb blankly, she had managed to affect a state of polite distress the whole day, but her real concern was for Harry, and maybe for the absence of her grief. She puzzled as to why she didn't feel genuine anguish. Sure she hadn't known the headmaster well, but he was the leader of the light, on _her side_. Hermione resumed her quiet vigil allowing her mind to wander.

Voldemort had ordered the death of Dumbledore, Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, and Professor Snape had been a traitor after all. Those three ‘facts’ had been all that were talked about over the previous weeks and yet, apart from the first, which Hermione accepted easily, the information was proving difficult for her to assimilate.

Draco was a Death Eater, that was no longer up for debate; it was a testament to how broken Harry was that he spared no time to flay her over her mistaken belief in Draco’s, well, not innocence, but Hermione hadn't believed a sixteen-year-old would be of interest to Voldemort. She should have realised by now that the adults on both sides were more than happy to use children to pad out their game of soldiers. It wasn't that she was keen to defend Malfoy, far from it, but Death Eater or not he hadn't been the boy she had 'known' in the last year. The Malfoy she knew was cruel and spiteful. Hermione’s reluctance to believe he had been marked was not just down to his age, and questions over his usefulness. It was more that she always believed, that had Draco become a Death Eater, he would have swaggered into Hogwarts, twice as nasty as he had been before, itching to let them _all know_ how he had walked into their ranks and fulfilled his birthright, how they should all watch out now. But he had not paraded around at all. Instead, he had been quiet, sinking into the shadows. Malfoy's welfare wasn't exactly high on Hermione’s agenda, but he seemed much more broken puppet than a hardened vigilante to her. A conclusion that was given more credence by Harry's retelling of the night on the Astronomy Tower.

The Potions Master had been the one to kill Dumbledore, in the end, Draco had tried, but he couldn't go through with it. Harry had heard him say something about his mother and it had played on Hermione's mind, _would she, could she kill to protect her family and friends?_ The answer remained inconclusive in her mind, but it wasn't likely to remain hypothetical very much longer. In the next year, she would presumably find out just how far she would go, just how willing she was to tarnish her soul in defence of those she loved.

Hermione listened to the Order talk about Professor Snape; their hate fuelled words swirling around her like smoke in the kitchen of the Burrow. He _had_ killed Dumbledore, that much was certain, but she was less clear about his motivations. The Order believed him to be a double agent, happy to have conclusive proof of his conniving, untrustworthy ways finally, but Hermione’s inferences were different. It was possible she was naive, it was childish to assume someone's relative humanity correlated to how they treated you, she couldn't excuse what had happened because he had been nice to her, once.

Though her assessment was based on more than that, she was dependent on logic and reason, and something didn't fit with Harry's version of that night. _Why hadn't Dumbledore defended himself?_ The headmaster had no way of knowing that the Death Eaters would simply leave afterwards, and while Hermione could readily believe that Dumbledore would be able to rationalise away the potential danger that put the rest of the school in, he had known Harry was only feet away. Hermione was _sure_ he wouldn't have risked Harry’s life… something else was going on.

She had pulled Harry aside days before, to let him know she had found out the identity of the Half-Blood Prince, her earlier snooping into the Hogwarts Yearbooks had proved to be somewhat useful. The book had belonged to Professor Snape. Harry took the news like a solid punch and Hermione left him in a comfortable chair to ponder it further, what he had needed then was not comfort, but time.

* * *

The day of the funeral turned into a bit of a soap opera. The new Minister for Magic arrived, and as expected Rufus Scrimgeour asked Harry for his assistance, wanting him to stand with the Ministry 'during these dark times'. Harry told him to fuck off, and Hermione had been a little stunned. She wasn't sure she had ever heard him so angry, or if she had ever been so proud of him. After years of telling him to shut up when speaking to authority figures, he looked a little confused by her coat-hanger grin, but Scrimgeour was a condescending bastard of the highest order.

The Minister was unperturbed by the brush off and continued as if he were talking to three particularly dense trolls. "With respect, Mr Potter, there are people in the Ministry that are better equipped to handle this situation, we only ask that you give your comments to curry some much needed public favour… for their own good."

In response Harry grabbed Hermione's wrist and brandished the back of her hand in the Minister's face, so the man could clearly see the lettering still carved there, ' _I must respect my betters_ '.

"With _respect_ Minister," Harry spat. "My friends and I are fully informed about the _betters_ you have at your disposal within the Ministry," before he dropped Hermione's arm and stormed off.

She cleared her throat and turned from his retreating form. "Thank you very much for attending Minister; I do hope you will stay for some cake."

* * *

By the time early evening had rolled around everyone was wrung out. Hermione and Ron had been collapsed under a tree for an hour or so when Harry joined them. He dropped down, sitting in front of them but not meeting their faces. He compressed his hands in his lap, and, noticing the tension, Hermione sat forward straightening up and observed Ron doing the same.

"I broke it off with Ginny," Harry began out of the blue.

Ron looked murderous. "You what?!" he shouted.

Harry lifted his hands in submission. "It's not because I don't... Well, I love her ok, but I can't keep her safe this year and for me… to even try what I have to do… to try to win this, I _need_ her to be safe." Ron looked contemplative and finally nodded, though his mouth remained set in a firm line.

"I won't be going back for the seventh year," Harry continued, "I made Dumbledore a promise, and I need to keep it… to win, I need to keep it."

"We’re coming with you," Hermione said, using the tone she reserved for the end of term revision charts, she looked at Ron.

"We've already agreed," he continued, folding his arms across his chest. They had discussed it the week before, at the Burrow, they knew they needed to put on a united, unwavering front to have a chance of not just convincing Harry in the moment, but also ensuring that he wouldn't just pay lip services to their assertions only to disappear into the night.

"You don't have to do that," Harry answered quietly, there was no trace of the usual fire present in his argument. She knew he wanted, needed them there, but he would never have asked.

"Muggleborn, chosen one, blood traitor," Ron said, pointing to each of them in turn, "it's not like we could have just boarded the Express in September and expected to complete our N.E.W.Ts," Ron laughed.

Harry nodded quietly, but Hermione knew there was still work to do there. The last of the day’s light was spent discussing the plan, Hermione had already worked out some things, but there were so many variables to consider.

"God for Harry, England, and Saint George!" Hermione uttered as she looked out across the deceptively calm waters of The Black Lake.

"What?!" both boys responded at the same time

"Oh for the love of Merlin, read a bloody book once would you?"

All three laughed at the gentle comfort of a familiar light-hearted argument, in spite of the gathering clouds they were still them, three teenagers, three friends, trying to enjoy a moment of sanity before the world fell apart.  



	11. Chapter 11

Looking so long at these pictures of you   
But I never hold on to your heart

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

June moved into July, and it was finally time to retrieve Harry from Privet Drive. Hermione had spent all summer preparing; she hadn't let the fact that they weren't exactly sure what they would be doing phase her, they had survived thus far on luck and little concrete information it would have to do. After numerous attempts, she had finally perfected an extension charm on a small beaded bag her mother had brought for her, before their trip to Rhodes, the spell was, in the eyes of the Ministry at least, more than a little grey, though Hermione considered that probably no longer mattered now. She had so far managed to get most of the books and research materials packed up. Clothing and as much food as she could gather would be next, followed by discretely taking the tent that they had used for the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione didn't expect Mr Weasley would mind her borrowing it, but she could hardly ask, no one knew their plan, and they intended to keep it that way.

Once all of the Order members cleared for the mission had arrived at the leafy suburban house, Ron and Hermione made their way to the front and knocked on the door. When it opened, Harry all but flung himself out, and the three friends embraced for a moment, giving little thought to the Order members piling into the house around them.

"Thank you for coming," Harry breathed into her hair, and they all ignored the slightly choked sound of his voice. Hermione understood he was conflicted, he was finally getting to leave the place that had housed some of the worst moments of his life, for good, but leaving it severed the last of his ties to the Muggle world, and to any blood relation he had. No matter how undeserving they might have been of the title family. Harry was free to go, but Sirius wasn't waiting for him. Hermione understood perfectly; he just didn't know how much she could empathise.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun could we," Ron laughed out, immediately alleviating the tension. Hermione smiled at him kindly; they really couldn’t do it without him. 

They moved into what must have been the living room, though no furniture remained it was easy to deduce from the lines, the now long gone three piece suite, had dented into the pristine carpet. Hermione found her eyes locking on those markings, innocuous as they were it put her in mind of the gaps that were now in her parent’s photographs, dents that had been made over time, that not even the best magic could remove. The Order had seen to it that the Dursley's were protected of course. Hermione swallowed down her bitterness, her vitriol, should she release it, would seem out of character,  _ why would she be against them helping out a defenceless Muggle family after all?  _ She wanted to yell, scream that none of them had even inquired about her parents, it was only important that she was available to assist Harry. She patted her friend on the shoulder and moved to the back of the crowd, to rest against a wall.

Alastor Moody walked to the front of the rabble and began gruffly lecturing on the plan for the evening, plans that Hermione had already heard too many times to count. She had never warmed to the war-ravaged Auror, though she could concede that a lot of that wasn’t even his fault. Barty Crouch Jr's presence in their lives had not left happy memories. What Hermione hadn't expected, when meeting the 'real' Moody for the first time, was to struggle to tell the difference between him and the psychotic Death Eater that had been playing him for a year. 

Instead of paying any kind of attention, Hermione stood with her eyes shut trying to regulate her breathing, she jumped when she felt a hand lay softly on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see Kingsley Shacklebolt standing before her. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you afraid Miss Granger," he said kindly.

"You should spend more time with me Mr Shacklebolt, perpetual fear has become one of my defining characteristics," she said dryly, and the imposing man regarded her wide-eyed. At first, Hermione thought he was looking at her sternly, until she noticed him trying to suppress a smile at her retort. "I apologise,” she said immediately, feeling slightly silly, “anxiety makes me crabby."

He smiled, before joining her in leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice, presumably so as not to embarrass her. "You don't have to do this you know, there is still time to pull out. Not all of us are fighters, Miss Granger. Even if you don't change your mind, it’s perfectly natural to be frightened before combat, and please,  _ for the last time, _ call me Kingsley," he finished with a broad smile that Hermione couldn't help returning, feeling some of the jitters melt away. If she was glad of one thing, it was that this plan meant she would be paired with him, and Kingsley Shacklebolt made her feel safe. Hermione was always relied upon to think, to make plans, to be Harry’s right hand. Having Kingsley, as he insisted she called him, as a partner meant she had someone looking out for  _ her _ .

"Ah… I wasn't thinking about that, the battle I mean. Well, I mean, I am scared of that as well... but it's the flying,” she admitted, cheeks flaming with self-consciousness. “I don't think I'm over the last time I rode on a thestral." 

Kingsley stared at her for several seconds until she muttered, "Why does everything need to be airborne?" and he broke into boisterous laughter so loud that it brought the attention of the whole room.

"When you have quite finished," Moody interrupted testily, "there's a mission to be getting on with. Miss Granger get yourself to the front," he grouched pointing in front of him. 

Kingsley bumped his shoulder into hers, “No worries Miss Granger, I’ve got your back.”

Hermione nodded, grateful for his distraction before sighing as she registered Moody’s grumbling and walked forward dutifully to stand between Ron and Fleur, in the line of  _ pretend Potters.  _ When the hip flask got to her, she drunk down the potion before passing it on and tried her best to keep the foul liquid down. Polyjuice, as it turned out, had not got any better tasting, but at least she was fairly sure she wasn't going to turn into a cat this time.

Changing into Harry's clothes in front of everyone was not fun, and it was a singularly bizarre experience to look down at her body and see someone else's features. Bill growled when the Twins moved behind her and Fleur to ping the straps of their now pointless bras, and Hermione shared an eye roll with the part Veela before hurrying her changing.

All too soon they took off into the sky, and Hermione couldn't stop herself from clinging to Kingsley, tighter and tighter before burying her face in his shoulder.

All lingering thoughts of the height and speed they were travelling at, deserted her when they had flown high above the house to discover Death Eaters _ surrounded _ them. Hermione had never seen that many at once, there must have been at least thirty. Their presence was no chance mission or stake out; they had to have known this was happening. The assembled fighters for the Dark had all donned their robes and masks, and Hermione realised that their purpose was not just to conceal identity, but also to intimidate and that they did an amazingly good job of both.

From that moment the battle began in earnest, and Hermione clamped herself as securely as she could to Kingsley and fought as hard as possible to keep them alive, this was no time for fear, they had to provide the distraction necessary to get Harry to safety, then they could travel to their secure destination.

Over to her left, enormous clouds of billowing smoke appeared, and from their centre, Voldemort flew,  _ actually flew _ , into the combat. After a few moments where he seemed to revel in the shocked faces of the assembled Order, he went after Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione watched on helpless as Mundungus Fletcher apparated away immediately, upon sighting who was on their tail, before Voldemort aimed a curse at the old Auror, striking him in the centre chest. The whooshing of the air and the crackling of spell fire was lost to the dull pounding in her ears, as he plummeted to the ground.

Hermione had no time to think, as Voldemort changed course, and came right for her and Kingsley, flanked by at least five Death Eaters. She had never seen Voldemort in the flesh before, if that was even an expression that could be applied to him; he looked so reptilian Hermione believed he was more snake and dark magic than man now. She sent two stunning spells in quick succession, not considering how immobilising someone while they were fifty feet in the air was likely to end up, and Kingsley sent a slicing hex that she was pretty sure had killed that opponent.

Suddenly Voldemort paused his combative stance, his head turning from them until he smiled, a grim sight, and rocketed off in another direction,  _ he must have known she wasn't Harry!  _ Distracted from her panic by the unmistakable cackling of Bellatrix Lestrange, and the sight of more Death Eaters heading in their direction, Hermione gritted her teeth and flexed her fingers around her wand. They  _ were _ going to make it out of there alive.

* * *

When Hermione and Kingsley eventually port keyed into the Burrow, the normally rambunctious family home was gripped by a different type of chaos than the norm. Before her feet had even landed entirely on the ground Professor Lupin, pointed his wand at Kingsley's chest and they recited their agreed security questions. Kingsley released her from the grip he had on her arm once they made it to the garden, and Hermione moved through the thick grass covering the Weasley’s grounds to make it to the house. Harry was there, safe, but emotional about having lost Hedwig during the fight, Ginny was comforting him, and for once he was too distressed to push her away. Hermione worriedly eyed the drawn face of her friend;  _ how much more could he take? _

George was stretched out on the sofa, blood covering one side of his face, Professor Snape Sectumsempra curse had lacerated his ear. Mrs Weasley had tried to mend it, but the nature of the wound repelled any healing magic. Hermione knew, from what Harry had told her, that  _ there was a way _ of healing those cuts, if there hadn't been Draco Malfoy wouldn't be alive, but the Potion's Master must have specially designed a counter curse to go with it, and none of those present was likely to know it. Molly was nearly hysterical at the thought of a man that had been in her home (as part of the Order, not as an expressly invited guest) had been close to killing her son. Hermione considered that if the former professor had been close enough to fire a spell that hit George's ear he had probably been close enough to kill him, and evidently hadn’t, though judged that her musings would not have been well received. 

She walked over to George giving him a murmured ‘hello’, and attempted to draw him into a conversation. If there was anyone who could lift the mood of the room it would be one of the Twins. Hurt as he was, his playful banter remained, and for once Hermione allowed his teasing with total forbearance. 

Shortly after she had arrived, been checked over and issued a firewhisky laced tea by Molly, Arthur and Fred burst into the Burrow. The Weasley patriarch pushed Professor Lupin out of the way when he attempted to interrogate him, so he could see his son, apparently having seen him take the hit earlier and had assumed the damage was far more severe. Hermione had never seen Arthur so forceful, a usually quiet man; she had stood back in shock as he had all but flattened both Remus and Kingsley, who were both far bigger than him. 

They fell into tense silence as Ron and Tonk’s timeslot came and went. A full twenty minutes after their allotted time a clattering outside alerted the Burrow inhabitants of their arrival. After several muttered curses Tonks appeared at the doorway first. "Sorry, sorry…” she apologised, pushing Ron through the door before her. “Got into a bit of sticky situation and missed our portkey."

Everyone was ‘treated’ to watching Professor Lupin's werewolf instinct take hold, as he roughly pulled his wife to him, slowly and methodically assessing every part of her, running his nose over her neck and face while moving his hands over her body firmly. Hermione was bright red, Ginny was delighted, and even Mrs Weasley looked slightly overcome.

Finally, Fleur and Bill arrived, barely a hair out of place on either of them, and they brought the news that Mad-Eye Moody had indeed fallen, and was dead. Harry's breath hitched, and he moved out of the kitchen, quickly pursued by Ginny.

* * *

Two days later it was if the latest battle had never happened. Molly had obviously decided that activity was the best thing for everyone, and had doled out tasks to all those currently under her roof, ostensibly to get the house ready for the upcoming wedding. But Hermione knew there was a secondary reason, Molly was an observant woman, and she must have noticed Hermione, Harry and Ron locked in conversation on several occasions since the school year had ended. Every opportunity she got, the matriarch set them up with different tasks, dispatching them to work the furthest they could be from each other in the house. Which was how Hermione found herself in the kitchen that morning, helping to prepare some of the food from the monumental list Molly had of what was 'essential' for the wedding.

"Hermione I've meant to get you on your own," Molly began once everyone else had cleared the room.

Hermione was briefly apprehensive, worried that she was going to be asked what her conferences with the boys had been about, but the softness in Molly's eyes suggested that topic would not come up for discussion until later.

"The Twins they told me what you asked them to do, in exchange for helping them with the shop and I… I'm  _ very grateful _ . I love all my children equally, and it wasn't that I was  _ disappointed _ they didn't do the same thing as their brothers, but I was upset they didn't do as well  _ as they could have,  _ you see?"

Hermione nodded, she did understand. When agreeing to 'consult' for the Twins, she asked them to go back and take some of their exams by owl correspondence. They had only ever got three O.W.L's apiece, and while Hermione knew she was requesting they do it for their own sakes, they had taken it as something that would appease their mother. They didn't need the exam results, not with a successful business empire, but Hermione was tired of people underestimating them, and thought it might make them understand how bright they were. It also had the added benefit of helping them brush up on the skills they required to develop items for the shop, thus alleviating the need for her services.

Molly excitedly relayed that they had added to their already obtained Transfiguration, Charms and DADA O.W.L's, by getting E's in Potions and Herbology and were now looking to pursue Potions and Charms N.E.W.T's. "Well, I expect they will have to wait now, until this is all over," Mrs Weasley finished, her eyes darkening briefly.

"Yes, when this is all over," Hermione agreed, laying a hand on Molly’s arm for a mere moment before going back to her designated whisking.

* * *

Hermione watched the retreating form of the Minister for Magic as he walked towards the edge of the Burrow wards, and wondered if they would ever meet anyone from the Ministry that would inspire some confidence. It didn't bode well for her first choice of profession. Once he disappeared, she looked down at the book she had been bequeathed, now that there was no need to mask any reaction she may have had, not that any of them had the recognition the Minister was apparently expecting to see in their faces.

Hermione turned the book over in her fingers,  _ Tales of the Beedle and The Bard _ . Ron had mentioned it was a favourite compendium of stories for children in the Wizarding world, and as such Harry and herself had never heard of it, _ why give it to her? _ Ron had simply shrugged at that. A cursory glance had revealed the pages were covered in Runes; it must have been a dreadfully old copy. Under normal circumstances, a find such as this, with an ambiguous task to complete, would have filled Hermione with unparalleled delight, but not this time. Could Dumbledore not have been a little more specific with the details regarding these 'gifts'? Or at the very least, clued Harry in during all of their private lessons together? Something about this, coupled with Harry's snitch made her uneasy.

"We go after the wedding," Harry said suddenly, his voice was firm and full of resolve. Hermione was relieved in a way, although she was scared, Harry had been dragging his feet a little over setting a date, and at least now she could make the final preparations. 

Ron sighed, his voice betraying the same hint of relief as Hermione’s thoughts. "Thanks, Harry, I don't think my mum would have forgiven me if we had gone before."

Hermione nodded, not taking her eyes of the new book. "We’ll be ready."

* * *

The wedding, though arguably poorly timed, was exceptionally beautiful. The bride looked unquestionably stunning, not that it could be considered a surprise, Fleur would have looked radiant in a bin bag. As it was, in her ball gown style dress, she looked almost regal. The outfit was a little flashy for Hermione's taste, too many elements and flounces. Not that she had ever given much thought to her wedding, but she believed, if it ever happened, she would prefer something infinitely simpler. As much as the Burrow looked fantastic, and it did, the sight of Fleur's pained grimace at every attention from her new mother in law made Hermione more confident that she had made the right decision regarding her potential future as a member of the family.

She attempted to enjoy the day as much as possible, although the entire affair reminded her strongly of the Muggle expression 'rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic'. She was, however, genuinely pleased to see Luna and her father, who were in fine fettle having come in matching buttercup yellow robes. When they came over to greet her, it was apparent Harry’s polyjuice disguise as a Weasley cousin apparently had no effect on the younger girl; Luna quietly greeted him warmly. No longer bewildered by incidents like this, after having been close to Luna for two years Hermione just filed it under the 'interesting, think on later', section of her brain.

The arrival of Viktor Krum was the first real surprise of the evening, Fleur had invited him, and as Hermione had been out of touch with her sometimes-correspondent for several months now, she had not heard of his planned trip to England. They danced together, at his polite request, and memories of the Yule Ball came flooding back as he twirled her around the floor. Viktor had grown into himself, Hermione thought, he was still tall and broad, but he seemed more self-assured in both himself and his footing. He wasn't an amazingly accomplished dancer, but he made her feel like a tiny ballerina in comparison to his impressive form, and Hermione once again found that she enjoyed that feeling. She wondered what it might have been like if they had met under different circumstances, had there been no war, had she already been over Ron. But such imaginings were pointless, there  _ was  _ a war, and they had met the way they had, it hadn't been meant to be. Though she could acknowledge that she liked his facial hair, it suited him, and in a moment of pure, ‘we might all die anyway’ daring Hermione told him so. 

They chatted for a little while, but the conversation, given what she couldn't reveal, was stilted. Despite what the press and most of Hogwarts had thought of him, Viktor was no idiot, and after giving increasingly vague answers to his enquiries on her plans for next year, and following graduation, Hermione excused herself before he could drag her away to ask what was going on. 

As she hastened off, Hermione just managed to dodge an angry looking Ron while heading to the other side of the tent to speak to Luna. Now that Harry had put their plans in motion she probably wouldn't get another chance to talk to her before they went into hiding. Luna wasn't hard to find, given her colour choice for the evening, and as soon as Hermione made it to her side, she cast a quick silencing charm around them. "Luna I," she began

"It’s ok, Hermione,” Luna interjected, gripping her fingers, “I know you won't be at school next term."

Hermione nodded, sometimes Luna’s foresight made things a lot easier. "Stick with the DA,” she requested seriously, “especially Neville and Ginny, it might not be safe for me to contact you for a while, so make sure you all watch out for each other." Hermione scoffed internally at how much she sounded like her mother, and couldn't hold back a wince at the pain that followed that thought. 

"I have something for you, before you go off on your travels, after all, I think I will miss your birthday and probably Christmas," her friend said, rooting into a large pocket on the inside of her robes. Luna leant forwards and placed a thin chain around Hermione's wrist, the gold bracelet had ribbons of varying shades of red braided through it, and a circular charm that dangled from the clasp. Gently grasping it to see clearer, Hermione read the inscription ' _ I am more than what people think of me _ ', as she let the circle fall it landed over the scratches cut into the back of her hand.

"Muggles call it a friendship bracelet," Luna said smiling, replicating Hermione's words from the year before, "and that," she pointed to the charm, "is in case you need reminding while I'm not around."

"Thank you," Hermione breathed. "Err...I have something for you as well," she said, recovering herself and digging into the beaded back she had over her shoulder. "I looked over some of the research your dad spoke about over Christmas, you know on the Blibbering Humdinger?" She handed a stack of papers over to Luna. "I think you've been focussing too much in Europe, given the evidence you had, I cross referenced the maps with the characteristics you had listed, and I believe it's much more likely to be found in a region of South America. I haven't had time to narrow down the completely-"

Hermione was cut off when Luna launched herself at her for a bone crunching hug, she  returned it with equal force. 

“You can come with us when you are back,” Luna murmured.

Hermione nodded, right at that moment she couldn't have thought of a more appealing offer. "Stay safe," she whispered into her hair.

"You too, Hermione, you too."

* * *

Hermione was being dragged inexpertly around the dancefloor by Ron when the wedding reception was interrupted by the arrival a large Patronus. She watched, struck motionless, as a spectral lynx she had never seen before floated with purpose to the centre of the tent, before speaking in the familiar baritone of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Scrimgeour is dead. The Ministry has fallen, they are coming," his firm voice rang out.

The effect on the reception was immediate, the music stopped, and screams broke out before the sounds of apparition filled the air. Ron grabbed Hermione's hand, and they darted around to find Harry, keeping one eye on the black whooshing clouds, that indicated the Death Eaters had already begun to break through the extensive wards. Finally reaching Harry, Hermione took his hand in her free one and scanned the tent quickly, just in time to see Luna disappear with her father before she apparated them away.

* * *

Antonin stood, watching from outside the cafe. Their ‘targets’ were sitting around a table littered with long forgotten coffee cups, leaning in to talk to each other. It was just  _ her _ and Weasley,  _ where was Potter? _

Thankfully she was facing out, towards the door, so that he could see her fully. He and Rowle had already disillusioned themselves before standing in front of the dilapidated building, the harsh lighting from inside illuminated most of the paved area, which made observing them a lot easier. They had dressed as Muggle maintenance men, a thin disguise that would likely only buy them a few seconds, but that would have failed if they had been visible in their lurking. It felt a little strange to be ‘hoping’ that someone recognised you while you were wearing a disguise, Antonin supposed it was more hope that the latest time in Azkaban hadn't made him unrecognisable. Her appearance had considerably changed since he saw her last. Her cheeks had slimmed down, and her eyes looked less comically large in her face. Her skin, which he had imagined in so much detail, still retained the faint tan colour that had drawn him to wonder whether it would be warm to the touch,  _ how long would it be before he found out? _

Compelling thoughts on getting his fingers lost in unruly chocolate curls were interrupted by concerns over how close her head was to Weasley's. Antonin was saved from acting rashly when Potter suddenly walked into his line of sight; he must have been in the bathroom, at his return  _ she  _ and the redhead quickly broke apart. Antonin studied them carefully; there did not appear to be anything guilty in their expressions, as he would have expected if Potter had interrupted a tendresse, he was appeased,  _ for now _ .

As Potter settled himself,  _ she _ stood from under the table, and Antonin fought to keep his breathing steady at the sight, so as not to alert Rowle that anything was amiss. At first, he thought she had only moved to allow Potter to sit back down, but she inclined forward and said a few words to the boys before proceeding towards the back of the cafe. Antonin panicked momentarily, believing she was leaving, before forcing himself to calm and view the scene again. They must have been changing clothes; they were supposed to have been at the wedding his colleagues had broken up earlier that evening.

Antonin watched with rapt attention as she swayed in an alluring fashion from view, he was sure she wasn't aware of the captivating picture she painted. Her deep red dress was demure, by most witch’s' standards, on her it was just…  _ lovely _ . The top half sat close to her form and the delicate straps of twisted fabric exposed her beautiful shoulders and collarbone. The bottom half of the dress was more voluminous, made of a soft looking, floaty material, that waved above her knees as she walked away, like gentle waters, lapping against a shore. 

Once again Antonin had been caught unawares, a feeling he abhorred, but for her, that feeling of being off kilter was so worth it. He had not been expecting to see her that evening. He and Yaxley were not part of the planned action on the Weasley home, so he was at his Lord's disposal when someone had broken the taboo. He had been stunned when they apparated outside the awful looking cafe to see her sat there, looking radiant, she didn't belong in a dank place such as this. 

Rowle had wanted to storm in as soon as they got there, and spoke of his desire to move again once Hermione had left the table. But Antonin had other plans. He had waited  _ too long _ for this chance, he needed to speak to her, and he didn't care what he had to do to ensure it happened.

Gearing himself up to face her, Antonin commanded Rowle to focus on Potter, explaining that he would subdue the others, Rowle hastily agreed. The younger Death Eater so consumed by the kudos he would receive from their Lord for apprehending the boy, that he did not question Antonin’s motives. Antonin did not care about Rowle or Potter, and even less about Weasley, but he was certain if the blond Death Eater touched  _ her _ he would react brutally, and he did not want her to see that before they had spoken. Antonin wasn't planning to hide the truth of himself from her, there was little chance of that anyway, with so much of his life now being public knowledge. But he wanted the opportunity to gain her trust, at least to the extent that she would believe he would never hurt her, and nor would anyone else while he still breathed.

An eternity passed, and then, finally, she came back towards the table, no longer in the dress but in some blue trousers and a jumper. Antonin couldn't bemoan the dresses loss given the clingy fabric of the bottom half of her outfit. Y _ es, it would definitely be best if Thorfinn didn't touch her.  _ He signalled to Rowle, and he took one last calming breath before they moved inside the cafe.

* * *

Even best-laid plans often go awry, Antonin thought to himself caustically as he battled against the growing frustration he felt. After ten minutes of exchanging spell fire, he had not managed to move any closer to Hermione. Every time he tentatively stepped in her direction he had to dodge increasingly aggressive casting from the ginger. Weasley clearly wanted to protect her, and Antonin had to shake away the nagging voices as they whispered that maybe there was more to their relationship, _ maybe he had touched her _ ,  _ perhaps she had enjoyed it _ . He calmed himself by remembering the audible crack of bone he had drawn from the last boy he'd seen with hands on her. Spurred on by his reimaginings Antonin launched a Reductor Curse in Weasley's direction and used the distraction to bound to the other side of the cafe, behind the counter. Despite his mounting irritation, he was pleased that she had managed to get to a position of relative safety. Helpfully, the area she was in would also afford them the most privacy they could get in their current environment to talk.

"You stay away from her!" The boy yelled. "You nearly killed her last time."

Antonin turned to Hermione, he was only several feet from her now, and directed his reply to her. "If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead." He would later reflect that probably hadn't been the best start.

She was spared from responding to his blunder when Potter managed to stun Rowle, Antonin had no idea how, barring sheer dumb luck, something that the boy seemingly had in spades, the blond wizard was huge, and in the confusion, Hermione managed to slip past him. Seeing his partner's prone form on the floor a quick idea developed in Antonin's mind, it wasn't the best plan, but he thought it could work. He could have overpowered them all and then  _ made _ her speak to him, but he didn't want to scare her, though he knew he would resort to that if he couldn't get what he desired by other means.

Weasley's casting wasn't particularly inventive if he had seen Potter be successful with a spell on Rowle, no doubt he would fire the same at Antonin. Mind made up Antonin stood, not hiding at all from view, and as expected a Stupefy was fired toward him the very next second. He shifted, only slightly, so it narrowly missed his arm then made a production of falling to the floor, when the room fell quiet he assumed he had done enough to make them believe he was out cold. From where Antonin was lying he could just see the three of them, standing around Rowle, their voices drifting over to him.

"You'll have to do it, Mione," Ron began.

"Do what Ronald?" she replied, her voice soothing Antonin jagged thoughts more than the booze he had imbibed in vast quantities since his release. 

"You need to Obliviate them, Mione," Ron replied. 

Antonin clenched his fists, as white hot rage pricked at his skin, the feeling intensifying with each use of their nickname for her, their familiarity making him irrational. His attempts at managing the fury pushed out the sound around him, but he could still see them both speaking to her. Eventually, her face fell, and she nodded.  _ What had upset her? _

"You two watch Rowle, that guy is huge, I have no idea how quickly he will wear off a normal stunning spell."

Antonin would no longer question how Harry had lived this long; Snape had been right, she was the smartest of the three by a long shot. He watched with a growing sense of nervous anticipation as her legs moved wearily towards the back of the cafe, preparing to Obliviate him.

When she reached the patch of the floor behind the counter Antonin his eye open just a slither as she bent slowly to crouch in front of him. She moved gracefully as she sat back on her haunches, then raised her wand to his chest. Sensing his opportunity, Antonin reached forward, moving quickly to startle her, and grabbing her small wrist, pushing the aim of her wand upwards, placing his other hand over her mouth. Years of missions had perfected his agile, silent movements. He had no desire to draw the attention of what would have been a rather  _ problematic audience _ for this conversation. 

Her eyes widened in surprise before her brow settled into a frown, Antonin didn't think she would appreciate hearing how adorable she looked just then. He was momentarily distracted from his purpose by the feel of her impossibly soft, pouty lips, against his rough hand, and stopped to savour how close she was to him after all this time. She may have grown up since he last saw her, but she was still so small, one of his hands covered the bottom half of her face completely, and Antonin allowed himself a second's pleasure from the feeling her panting breath heating his palm.

Noticing her wobble slightly, as she was still perched on the back of her heels, Antonin slowly moved the hand holding her wrist to the ground, manipulating her fingers so she dropped her wand. Then he moved his hand, unhurriedly to her waist, before pulling her across his legs so she would be comfortable. The new position meaning he could speak right into her ear,  _ keep telling yourself that Dolohov. _

She fought against his grasp, and Antonin pushed his mouth to her ear. "Shh… I need to speak to you," he whispered gently but urgently, exposing his need.

She turned her head to face him, and their bodies were impossibly close together now. Antonin felt her mouth move against his palm and he realised he would have to release her for her to participate. Reluctantly, he moved his hand away, instead, resting it on her shoulder, the one that was not delightfully pinned to his chest. He watched her face as he settled into the feeling of her pushed against his body, both of his arms wrapped around her. 

She didn't make to move or even yell, as he had feared, and Antonin considered loosening his grip but decided against it, it wasn't as if it was  _ all _ to secure her anyway. They didn't break eye contact for several seconds, and Antonin was too busy delighting in the opportunity to regard her this close, to remember what he wanted to say. He was  _ so _ near he could count the delightful freckles that scattered across her nose. Her brown eyes were burning into his.

"What about?" She whispered finally, her soft voice breaking Antonin from the spell he was under, it was only the second time she had ever directed speech at him, and he took a moment to steady his breathing.  _ He had to get this right. _

"About the last time I saw you," he hedged, delicately would be the way to go. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure that was a particular strength of his.

"When you tried to kill me you mean?" she snapped, and his eyes darted to her's, watching them dance with fire.

"No, well, at least... that wasn't  _ exactly _ my intention," Antonin faltered out, having not expected her vehemence, though he couldn’t say it was off-putting. 

"Well, what was your intention?" she countered haughtily. 

Antonin coughed a little before pushing her slightly away from his chest, though he instantly lamented the loss of her warmth, he didn't want her becoming aware of the effect her bouncing in indignation was having, it was unlikely to help this come to a satisfactory conclusion.  _ Would she even know? Had she been this close to a man before? Had they _ ... Stop!

Antonin exhaled. "I needed to create a diversion, Macnair was coming for you, and you were so busy looking for Luna you didn’t even notice him. He is not a good man  _ Hermione _ , and he would have... I don't even want to think about. I didn't have time to think."

"By not a 'good man' do you mean worse than you?" she asked.

Antonin bristled until he noticed the honest curiosity behind her enquiry, he considered his answer. He didn't want to lie to her, but there wasn’t much honesty he could impart that wouldn't be objectionable at the very least. "I am not a good man Hermione, I am sure you already know that, but I will  _ never _ be a danger to you." He stared into her eyes, imploring her to understand, he felt more than heard her breath hitch and forced himself to let  _ her _ be the one to break the silence.

"Why couldn't you have stunned me? If you expect me to believe you were doing it to protect me, why not something safe?" she pushed.

"It would have made everything worse; he would have-"

She cut him off, "How could it have made it worse? My friends thought  _ I was dead, _ " she viciously replied.

Her fire had sparked his own, Antonin didn't take well to people snapping at him, and it had been several decades since anyone had taken that sort or tone. He sat forward, moving his hands to rest on her shoulders and gripped her roughly. "Better to have been thought of as dead, than stunned and laid before Macnair as a temptation he would not have ignored," Antonin said, his voice dripping with poorly concealed rage.

He noticed her face pale in realisation, but it was too late for him to stop "Do you understand Hermione? Understand what he would have done if he had found a stunned schoolgirl lying in his path, he would have  _ ruined _ you. Abused your body until your spirit broke, your mind shattered, and that would have been his plan had you just been any ordinary girl. But you had already stunned him that night, he would have been motivated to make it even worse for you. 

He doesn't kill the girls he takes, not outright anyway. Usually months after he has them, they die, from their injuries, bleeding out on whatever grotty bed he's left them in. Or there are the ones who can summon the strength and the means to take their own lives," he relayed, in increasingly savage whispers. Antonin hated to frighten her, but she needed to understand. Of course, he left out how he would have broken Walden into a million bloody pieces if he had done such a thing,  _ one shock at a time _ . 

Hermione had completely stilled listening to him, her eyes were huge on her too pale face, and Antonin felt his ire slip away, he moved his arms from her shoulders and pulled her back towards his chest, in a rather awkward show of comfort, she was in too much shock to protest.

"Why?" she asked softly, her voice sounding a little rough. "Why did you want to help me at all?"

The tips of Antonin’s fingers absently drummed against the soft fabric of her jumper before he exhaled heavily. “Knowing the danger you were in, I sent a curse at you, one people wouldn't recognise," he replied, ignoring her question, he wasn't ready to answer that yet.

"What was it supposed to do?" she asked quietly.

"It was initially designed for myself and Yaxley as a kind of last resort during the first war, a way of faking death. It was based off a spell of my own design that would attack internal organs, it needed to look real. But we hadn't worked all of the details out, and we were in prison before we could test it," he admitted.

She turned to face him again. "You fired an experimental curse at me that you tried creating fourteen years before, scaring me forever, for my own good? Are you insane?" she hissed.

"The findings on that are somewhat inconclusive," Antonin mumbled in response, more to himself than to her, before he processed what she had said. "You have a scar?"

She shifted slightly on his lap. "Yes!" she answered in exasperation, before sagging slightly. "I mean, it's reduced, but it's still there."

"Where?" he answered tightly, it had never been his intention to mark her skin. 

"On my hip," she whispered.

Antonin pressed a single enquiring finger against the hip sitting against him, and she made a tiny nod. Knowing he needed to see the damage, even if it was him who had inflicted it, he pushed her forward delicately and rested his hand on the bottom hem of her jumper. He lifted his eyes to get some indication of permission but her head was tilted down, her large caramel irises fixed on his hand, but she didn't throw him off, and that was enough. Slowly Antonin raised the jumper so that the smallest patch of skin was exposed. There, amongst her buttermilk shaded skin, was a faint lapis blue line, about five inches long, the scar tissue was lightly puckered as was common with all cursed scarring, and familiar to Antonin, he had enough of it lining his body, though he had never seen a wound that colour before.

Antonin pulled her jumper up further, and his other hand tentatively came forward to lightly brush against the skin of her hip with his knuckles, focusing all of his energies on remaining gentle. He delighted in her visible shudder at the contact, and with finally having evidence of just how warm her skin was to the touch, she was all sunshine; warmth, light, heat and spark all coarsed under her flesh, and danced in her eyes. Emboldened Antonin reached his hand forward, more deliberately this time, and grasped her hip tightly, rubbing his thumb in slow, gentle circles over her stomach.

"I had not meant for you to bear a mark," he spoke directly into her ear

He watched as she made another, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes not leaving his hand. Antonin didn't know if it was acceptance or signalling the end of the conversation, but at that moment, with her skin warming his fingertips he didn't care.

"I have to Obliviate you, you know," she said, her tone sounded resigned.

"No you don't," he answered, quickly shaking his head, he couldn't let her go, not now he had her here, not when she wasn't fighting to get away from him. "You could leave now, with me, and I could make sure you were safe."

Her body tensed as her head snapped up, her earlier temper returning. "No, you couldn't... and anyway what's your definition of safe? I'm not safe unless  _ your Lord  _ is gone, until then I will never be free."

Antonin opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment their little bubble was interrupted by Weasley moaning. "Mione come on." The effect of the words on the girl in his lap was immediate, she dislodged herself from his grasp and reached to grab her wand, flexing her fingers around it once it was back in her grasp.

"Where are you going?” he asked hurriedly, aware their time was coming to an end. “Hogwarts will not be safe for you in September."

"We know we have other... plans."

"Just you and the boys?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," she answered shortly, with an expression that suggested she was daring him to challenge her assertion.

Antonin narrowed his eyes. "Do you think it is appropriate for a young woman to be travelling alone with two teenage boys?"

She narrowed her eyes right back at him. "Not that it's any  _ of your business _ , but probably not, though things like propriety tend to take a bit of a back seat in life or death situations."

Antonin held his tongue, though he had to do it forcefully,  _ with his teeth _ , he was not happy about this, but she would go soon, and he didn't want this encounter to end in an argument. "Come with me," he tried again, once she appeared to have calmed down, though he already knew it wasn't going to happen.

"I can't... I can't trust you," she said shaking her head.

Antonin wanted to yell at her, but a small voice in the back of his mind murmured that she was sensible and he forced his annoyance down. Somehow he had to convince her. "Hermione you can… I warned you about the planned raid on your parents' home."

Her brow furrowed. "No you didn't," she moved to resume her previous crouched position in front of him and poked his chest with a delicate finger. "You were in Azkaban; I'm pretty sure they don't have a mail service, unless conditions there have vastly improved without my knowledge."

"I didn't mean directly," Antonin replied, unable to keep the petulance he was feeling out of his tone.

"That's funny, because that is what you said," she snapped haughtily.

"You are behaving ridiculously," he spat.

"I am a famous Muggleborn, having a conversation with one of the Dark Lord's most faithful, in hushed tones on the floor of one of the worst cafes I have ever stepped into, so I think my responses are entirely reasonable."

Antonin laughed. He couldn't help it, Hermione was completely disarming, and he forgot himself for a moment. A moment too long it turned out, as the commotion apparently disturbed the boys and footsteps began to get closer.

She twirled her wand in her fingers for a moment before facing him, her mouth pulled in a self-satisfied smirk. "Well, Mr Dolohov, I believe it's time we even the score between us," she said smugly.

"Oh yes, and how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Her expression had faltered for just a second before she squared her shoulders. "I've never performed a memory charm before… so I guess you could interpret this as somewhat experimental…  _ Obliviate. _ "

* * *

Hours later, Antonin was finally given the order to rise from the stone floor of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor, after an unknown amount of time under the Cruciatus Curse. His bones creaked, and he was vaguely aware of a copper tang in his mouth, but he stood before placing himself on his knees in front of the Dark Lord. His master had been  _ very  _ unimpressed at the report himself, and Rowle gave when it got back and had immediately sought to vent his frustrations.

Once he was permitted to leave Antonin apparated directly to Yaxley's townhouse, the wards allowing him to pass straight into Reuben’s study. He had no interest in being at Malfoy Manor any longer than he had to.

As he had anticipated Yaxley was sat behind his grandiose desk, absently sorting through piles of parchment. "How did your mission go?" he asked without looking up.

"Could have been better," he answered as he sunk into the nearest chair, summoning the largest decanter of firewhisky to himself. Yaxley looked up and raised his brow in enquiry.

Antonin sighed. "It was Potter, Weasley... and  _ Hermione. _ "

Yaxley put his papers down and steepled his fingers in front of his face before summoning his own glass. "Am I to take it, as you have yet to corner me about accommodations, you did not bring back a stowaway?"

"She Obliviated me," he admitted reluctantly, taking a large swig of his drink, "at least partially… I'm not sure what she did exactly, but it feels like more of the memories are coming back the overtime."

Yaxley sat back in his seat eyes alive with mirth. "Now Antonin, just how did she get close enough to do that?"

Antonin sighed again, and Yaxley laughed in response, he glared at him, and Reuben raised his palms in contrition. "I'm sorry, it's just I've never seen you have trouble with a woman before, normally there all over your stiff Russian demeanour, and now this little witch has you tripping all over yourself."

"It wasn't the way I had planned for the evening to go-”

“You didn’t let your guard the whole way down did you, little firebrand could have killed you.”

“I had to take the chance to explain myself," Antonin defended, albeit weakly. He recognised the truth in his friend's warning and yet, something from that moment, beneath her incredulity and acquisition, there had been something. 

"Do you think she understood?" Reuben enquired, his tone more serious.

"I'm not sure," Antonin replied as he refilled his glass, "I tried to tell her I had warned her about the raid on her parent’s home, she shot that down."

"Well, she was right there, that wasn't you… directly,” Reuben said, adding the qualifier in response to the sharp look Antonin sent him, “and at least she's smart. I hate the idea of spending my time with a stupid girl about the place."

"Why would you be spending time with her?" Antonin interjected, and Yaxley carried on as if he hadn't heard him.

"I still can't get over her Obliviating you tonight, and breaking your arm the last time, I wouldn't have thought she was heavy enough to have done that, even if she jumped on you, her and that blonde are so tiny it's ridiculous. Do you know I managed to lift both of them, at the same time, with ease, and they were both struggling?"

Antonin didn't care for the soft gaze that had fallen over Yaxley's countenance,  _ at all. _ "I didn't realise you had been looking that closely," he bit out.

Yaxley shook his head and turned to face him. "Oh grow up Antonin, she's bright, lovely and seemingly does not bow in the face of your  _ supposed _ charms, doesn't that sound like my type to you?" he questioned lightly.

Before Antonin could think he had stood from his chair violently,  _ too violently, _ if his protesting joints were to be taken into consideration. Yaxley stood, in a much more relaxed way and navigated around the desk, putting both his hands on Antonin's shoulders.

"I'm kidding… brother," he said placatingly. Antonin felt himself sag, the constant raising of his blood pressure would probably kill him before the war did. "But you know if she's got a cousin?" Yaxley laughed out, but he didn't move away fast enough to miss Antonin's blow to his shoulder.

 


	12. Chapter 12

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you   
That I almost believe that they're real

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Relocation to Grimmauld Place had not been easy. Given their current circumstances, wanted by the Wizarding world as a whole, being somewhere safe, warm and dry, with a literal roof over their heads, was somewhat better than they could have expected, but it did not make the transition any smoother. Hermione often felt that the very building itself was rejecting their presence. Apparating to the only place they could think of, they had not prepared themselves to enter the home. Dust and decay had set in fast; you would have been forgiven for thinking that the townhouse had been empty for years, not the few months it had been since they had been there last. Hermione wondered if the regression had been helped along by Kreacher, anxious as the elf may have been to remove any evidence of their former occupation. The ancient house elf largely stayed out of their way, Harry concluded he had finally gone completely round the bend, following the fall of the House of Black, but given the amount of times Hermione heard him mutter Mudblood under his breath, she thought Harry a little off the mark. Kreacher had enough faculties remaining to know  _ exactly _ where he was, and who they were, and he didn't like it.

She was reminded, as she walked the deteriorating halls, of her mother saying it was inhabitants that made a house a home, and this house had never been a home for any that had passed through its doors. How could it only have been two years ago that she had been here following commands from Molly, to get the house fit for the Order? Dodging a disinterested and disheartened Sirius as he pounded the floors, lost in the waking nightmare of his past.

The house wasn't the only thing that had regressed; Harry was struggling. The weight of the war, Dumbledore's death, and the total lack of direction they had were sitting heavily on him. That would have been enough for any one person, but living here, the former home of the closest person he'd ever had to a parent, was even more damaging. He wallowed for a solid week while Hermione grew increasingly despairing, then, without warning, something changed. Harry woke up one morning and came into the library, where she had set up her research base, and sat at the table without fanfare or explanation.

"Where do you want me to start?" he asked, looking over the tomes and parchments she had arranged in piles all over the table.

Hermione nearly cried with relief. Relief that he was talking again, and relief that she wouldn't be going it alone anymore. She took him through everything she had discovered so far on the Horcruxes, her first theories on what some could be, and ideas over where to start looking. For the next four days, they worked diligently, side by side, and Hermione felt like they were getting somewhere for the first time. With Harry helping go through the books and adding his thoughts to what they discovered, the pace of work trebled. In their quiet time of debating ideas Harry also imparted more details Dumbledore had told him during their session. They discussed all he knew about Voldemort's upbringing and the path he walked to becoming who he was now, all of it was important, nothing could be overlooked.

It appeared that Voldemort was a man, or rather had been a man that valued ceremony and trophies. Hermione considered that if  _ she _ were to create a Horcrux, heaven forbid, she would make it out of the most inconspicuous and reason-less object she could find, using the same rationale adopted for portkeys. An old boot was not likely to be tracked down, however hard a group of people searched for it. But Riddle was not the same as her, years of deprivation and being denied his heritage had made him covetous of power and status, the rest of the items would be as significant as the three they knew about had been.

The research continued. Hermione found herself more at peace than she had been since before the night of the attack on Hogwarts, the situation was dire, but she was now operating inside of her element. In the months leading up to this, Hermione had felt like her life was on pause, at least now she could start work on something to help. She was good at the academics, but Harry was a natural leader, and despite his penchant for getting into trouble he couldn't quite get himself out of, he had good instincts. Working together they learnt all they could about the creation of objects so dark they weren't even readily found in books in the Black Family library.

Ron was finding the adjustment to being 'on the run' the most difficult. Although he had never had money, Ron had grown up with a particularly diligent mother, who ran the Burrow like a war-time vessel. Molly Weasley had raised her children well, but had not exactly done so with the express intention of making them independent. Molly had always struck Hermione as a mother that was in no rush to have the apron strings cut, and as a consequence Ron was next to useless with household chores, and often got frustrated when things weren't to the standard he expected. He didn't mean it; he just hadn't been used to any level of discomfort in his life. Harry, by contrast, had been used to far too much. After several meals where they risked Kreacher's cooking, they unanimously agreed to take it on themselves. Harry had an aptitude for housework that made Hermione uncomfortable, she knew how those skills had been obtained, and they hadn't come from any active interest. She had not been used to discomfort either, but she was a practical girl, raised by sensible people that had strived to raise a self-sufficient daughter. Hermione had helped her mother in the kitchen from a young age, Jean Granger was a working mum, and that meant a lot of the meals that Hermione was accustomed to would probably seem simple to a family like the Weasley's, but she was satisfied with them.

Harry decided after those first mornings in the library that they knew all they were going to know about Horcruxes in general, and it was time to act. They needed to know what the objects were, and how to destroy them. As the second didn't become a problem until they had managed the first they focused on locating one for now. They only had one real clue, the fake necklace and the accompanying note, addressing the Dark Lord, from a person who had been attempting to do the same as them. Once they stumbled across the initials R.A.B. on the door of a bedroom opposite Sirius' upstairs, the rest of the story came out rather quickly. A heart-breaking tale of a misunderstood pureblood prince who had decided to devote the last days of his life in an attempt to right what he saw as poor decisions of not only himself, but his family.

Reading the diary of Regulus Arcturus Black was difficult for all of them, Harry was especially moved as Sirius would never know the truth about his brother's loyalties. Hermione was privately glad of it. She didn't want to seem callous, but she wasn't sure Sirius had been stable enough towards the end to have learnt this news. To discover the fate of the brother he'd shunned would probably have broken him in a way that even twelve years in Azkaban hadn't managed.

After an early night where the trio all went to bed with heavy hearts, Harry awoke more determined than ever to get moving with their plans. He had added the responsibility of another person to be avenged to his shoulders, and he was resolved to finish what Regulus had started. It was time to locate the locket. The real one.

After managing to corral Kreacher into cooperation by the mere mention of 'dear Master Regulus' they discovered that Mundungus Fletcher had been in and out of Grimmauld Place rather frequently in previous months, taking whatever he felt like from Harry's inheritance. An enthusiastic Dobby and a surprisingly buoyed Kreacher were dispatched to locate him, and Hermione headed upstairs to go back to the books. Facing Mundungus was not on the list of things she wanted to do, ever again. One of the recurring images, from her more vivid nightmares, was seeing Mad-Eye Moody shot in the chest, plummeting to the ground. She wouldn't forgive Dung for his cowardice that day.

Hours later, a very pale Harry entered the library followed by a subdued Ron, Hermione looked up from her books. "Did they not find him?" she asked, confusion pulling at her brow.

"Oh no they found him, and they brought him back...  _ very much against his will. _ " Harry moved his hands to his neck, resting the back of his head on them momentarily. "He admitted taking it," he continued, and the room was silent, Ron was staring at the floor, scuffing the toes of his shoes against the edge of a worn rug, and Hermione sensed anxiety bloom in her stomach.

"Well… don't keep me in suspense Harry, have they gone to get it?"

He rubbed his face. "No, he's sold it."

She instantly deflated, but her mind started whirring, it was the only thing they had, they needed to make the most of whatever loose strands they could grasp. "Crap, ok, so I suppose we could try and-" she tried, her mind running a mile a minute in an attempt to concoct another plan,  _ anything _ so that they weren't at yet another dead end. 

"He knows who bought it," Harry interjected, not meeting her eyes.

"Harry, you're scaring me," she murmured.

He raised his head slowly to face her, an unreadable expression cast over his features. "It's Umbridge, she brought it... and she apparently wears it... all the time."

"Shit."

* * *

Hermione couldn't quite believe that in the month that was required to brew the Polyjuice Potion, they had come up with no better plan than to infiltrate the Ministry and steal the locket. They hadn't even managed to put more flesh on the very limited bones of the ridiculous plot they were going with. With an air of resignation, she dropped the last ingredient into the simmering cauldron and stirred. No more stalling time, tomorrow they would go to face Umbridge.

* * *

Hermione was once again forcibly reminded that she was not made for espionage as they were running for their lives through the halls of the Ministry, the jaws of death ready to close around them at any moment. Fortuitously, as herself and Harry rushed into the atrium, they met with Ron, almost colliding with each other in their haste to get out of the building. Harry ordered the security team that we're working on closing the exits to stop their progress and allow them through. They had realised earlier that the man he was disguised as, Albert Runcorn, seemed to be relatively senior, and they intended to use that to their advantage.

It had looked like they would get away just in time, but then, Reuben Yaxley showed up. He countered the order Harry had given immediately, it was clear that while people may have been intimidated by Runcorn, they were positively terrified of the tall, dark Death Eater and his harsh Northern tones.

Scared with good reason as it turned out, Yaxley was a lot less dense than many of the Death Eaters they had encountered thus far, and he put together what was happening pretty quickly. Rushing forward he grabbed onto Hermione’s arm as they disapparated. In her panic, Hermione attempted a Revulsion Jinx to get him to let go but it missed, and not only did Yaxley travel with them but in doing so she had unwittingly taken him through the protective wards around twelve Grimmauld Place.

Four bodies landed on top of one another in the dusty hallway, and the trio had no time to react to Yaxley's superior experience, and war honed reflexes. With one wordless spell, he stunned Ron and Harry, their bodies thrown into the wall of the corridor, their heads lolling to the side. Hermione went into a defensive stance, but he all but ignored her. Instead, Yaxley busied himself with his outer robe, and she watched shocked speechless as he produced a piece of parchment from an inside pocket and waved his wand over it before it disappeared. He turned to face her, eyeing her posture and raised wand, he seemed to regard her with a level amusement that would have made Hermione bristle if she wasn't so bloody scared.

"Put your wand down Hermione, it's too late, I've already called him," Yaxley said darkly.

She glanced down at his forearm and attempted to stop herself from throwing up.

* * *

Hermione was still fighting back bile when a loud pop resonated throughout the building; she raised her eyes slowly to see a dark looming figure, just not the one she had expected. Antonin Dolohov was standing in the hallway of the ancestral home of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, engaged in what looked to be an intense whispered conversation with Yaxley. Hermione kept still, and silent. She had close to a million questions, but her body wouldn't cooperate with the instructions her mind was giving. She couldn't run, the boys were on the floor, and she would never have made it over to them in time, but more than that, something, some part of her  _ wanted _ to stay.

Antonin kept one eye on her the entire time he was speaking, and during a moment where Yaxley appeared to get rather animated about whatever he was passing on, Hermione stood transfixed as the Russian wizard swept his eyes from the top of her head right down to her trainer clad feet. She was reminded of how she had felt the last time that had happened, when Cormac Mclaggen had regarded her that way before Slughorn's party. She recalled how she had wondered at the time what that action would feel like if a  _ man _ had done it. Well, she knew now, and just as soon as her brain unscrambled she would try to work out what she thought.

Hermione had thought of him a great deal since their last encounter in the cafe. She didn't exactly know what to make of him, but he intrigued her, and dark, brooding wizard or not he was unquestionably attractive. She tilted her head slightly to regard Yaxley, broader than his friend; she could just pick up the hushed edges of his gruff voice. Hermione imagined the sound would be rather pleasant if it weren't being yelled directly at you.  _ Did he-who-must-not-be-named recruit only the most attractive purebloods? _ As if he could read her thoughts Dolohov followed the direction of her gaze and his eyes narrowed.

The spell was broken as the two men moved from each other's sides. Yaxley spoke, his words directed at Dolohov. "The Fidelus is broken, you have about ten minutes, those two will remain incapacitated for about thirty," he gestured a hand in Ron and Harry's direction and then turned to her. "Apologies Miss Granger, I think I was slightly overzealous in my casting, all that chasing you lot round the Ministry got my blood up," he said, sounding about as far from sorry as it was possible to be.

Hermione's brain was tripping over itself as it tried to catch up, when he made to leave the hall she called after him. "Wait… You… You called Dolohov?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, who were you expecting?" Yaxley asked bemusedly.

"You’re Lord," she whispered.

For the second time in her life Hermione was struck dumb by a fearsome Death Eater laughing loudly in her face, her fear quelled, for now, she could feel her irritation rising and he noticed.

"I'm sorry," he said, gasping for breath as he held hands up in front of himself. "I only just realised what that must have sounded like… I assumed from the horror you had on your face you  _ really _ didn't want to see this one. With the stories, I heard of your last encounter it would hardly, have been surprising." 

It appeared Hermione wasn't the only one not amused as Dolohov punched Yaxley firmly in the side. He stumbled around from the blow, but his laughter continued. "Oh Merlin that's  _ priceless, _ do you have any idea how long it's been I laughed like this?"

Fed up with the spectacle, and not knowing what the hell was going on, Hermione raised her wand, Yaxley was once again unmoved. "Put your wand down Hermione, I haven't saved you twice to kill you now," he looked around the hall, disgust evident on his face, "especially in this shit hole."

Hermione's face twisted with disbelief. "You… you sent the note?" His only answer was to nod. With her mind in short circuit mode, her mouth went into autopilot, and she said the first thing she thought. "Your bloody owl attacked me."

"You think I would send my own owl?” Yaxley asked, slight scorn creeping into his tone. “I've been told you’re intelligent little one, don't let me down now," he had stopped laughing at her though his eyes maintained a glint of diversion. "I believe the expression you're looking for is _ thank you, _ for which you owe me two. One for the warning and one for Hogwarts."

"The Death Eater in the corridor?" Hermione questioned and he nodded again. "I don't understand... why you are doing this for me?"

"I hate to break it to you sweetheart, but it wasn't  _ for you _ , it was for him," he pointed at Dolohov. "Antonin requested that I keep you safe while he couldn't, and that's what I did," he explained matter of factly.

Hermione looked back to Dolohov who did not seem to be keen to take part in this conversation.

"But why?" she questioned again

"I didn't ask," Yaxley shrugged.

"What? You went to all that trouble, put yourself in danger, all without knowing why?"

"Yes, Miss Granger, the same as you would do, have done, for your…  _ friends _ ," Yaxley said the last world with a measure of disdain that Professor Snape would have been proud of. He fixed her a stern look and all traces of the laughing man from seconds earlier was gone. "I do not owe you an explanation, but I will give you one anyway, he and I owe each other our lives many times over. He is my brother in everything but blood, and I will support him in all of his…  _ endeavours _ ," he seemed to mull the word over from a second before nodding. Yaxley checked his watch again and made to leave the room.

"Wait," she called again, and he paused but did not turn around, regarding her from over his shoulder instead. "Thank you," she said earnestly. She might not fully understand it but he had tried to help her, if he hadn't put her and Luna behind that tapestry they would have been out in the open when Greyback got there, and given the gap of time before Rabastan had appeared, most likely dead.

"You’re welcome," Yaxley answered so softly she almost didn't hear it, before he continued his progression out of the hall.

* * *

The air immediately grew awkward when Yaxley left, the atmosphere between herself and Dolohov seeming to thicken. At first, Hermione thought the reticent Death Eater was feeling uncomfortable too until she noticed his hollowed out cheeks from where he was biting on the inside of his mouth, and the smouldering fire in his eyes. He was suppressing anger and a lot of it. Hermione wondered whether she should speak, to try and head off whatever the problem was, but that option was taken from her when the lid that Dolohov had been holding on his emotions broke open.

"You broke into the  _ fucking Ministry of Magic _ ?" he raged, nostrils flaring. "That was the sum of your  _ other plans _ ? That was that what prevented you from coming with me? That was the reason you wouldn't let me keep you safe? Little did I know it was  _ you  _ I had to keep you safe from... you and your merry band of idiots,” he seethed, his hands clenching.

"I appreciate it wasn't the best plan," Hermione countered in a small voice; she knew it was not a large enough show of contrition when Dolohov moved his hands through his hair as if he would tear lumps out

"Ty Che, Blad? Who decides your plans?" he said while looking at the ceiling.

Given his response to her last answer Hermione decided to take that as a rhetorical question, she kept quiet and still. Dolohov stepped back to lean against the wall, closing his eyes, and visibly tried to regulate his breathing. Hermione was shaking, he hadn't frightened her, not as such, but to say it had been a rough day was an understatement, then to get back here, their safe house now lost, and he was here again, she had no idea how to feel about that. 

The first time they'd met Hermione had been terrified of him, had watched on with fear as he had broken Neville’s arm, then he'd hexed her. The next time he appeared, unexpectedly dropping into her life once more, he had said he wanted to talk. He'd apologised for his actions, begged her to let him take her to safety, and now here he was again, supposedly he'd made sure she was protected while he was in prison, and he looked on the verge of having a stroke because she had put herself in danger.

Dolohov rubbed his hands over his face roughly, and his eyes fell on her again. "You look smaller than the last time that I saw you," he said, his words sounding almost like an accusation though his voice was too raw from the recent shouting.

"I suppose it's an occupational hazard of being on the run," Hermione replied lightly, trying to relieve some of the remaining tension. "Why did he call you? Yaxley I mean."

Dolohov shuffled and looked distinctly uneasy for a second before folding his arms in front of his chest defensively. "He knew I wouldn't pass up a chance to see you," he answered softly, his tone losing a glimmer of the Russian accent he had when he had been yelling. 

"You won't tell your Lord?" she asked warily. 

"No Hermione, I told  _ you could trust me, _ " he said imploringly. "You are… _ I want  _ to keep you protected."

"That's all?" Hermione asked sceptically, she was waiting to hear the catch, what he wanted in return, what she could negotiate for him with the Order, how she could help him play both sides.

"No," he said firmly. "I want you,  _ to want me to keep you safe, _ and everything, and anything else you might want me for," he said looking straight into her eyes.

It was Hermione's turn to look uncomfortable; she was suddenly aware that this unbelievable conversation was occurring right in front of Ron and Harry, not that they were aware of it, and her eyes momentarily darted in that direction.  _ How would she tell them about this?  _

Dolohov didn't miss the movement of her eyes and his mouth set into a grim line. "Are you with him?" he questioned roughly, some of his earlier temper leaking back into his tone as he pointed towards Ron with a jerk of his arm and stepped towards her.

Hermione followed his hand and frowned. "What? No, he’s my friend.”

When she turned back around, she realised Dolohov was standing  _ much closer  _ than he had been before _ , _ and she instinctively moved back. 

"What of the boy?" he questioned, again stepping forward.

"What boy?" Hermione asked. 

His eyes bore into hers, "The one that  _ touched _ you, at the Ministry," he clarified.

Hermione had continued to unconsciously retreat backwards as he stalked towards her, and was surprised when she collided with the wall, it left her nowhere to escape to. Though her halt didn't stop Dolohov moving forward, he crowded her, only stalling when he was so close the toes of their shoes were touching, Hermione became all too aware of his height and form blocking her in.

"Hermione," he breathed into her ear, saying her name with a reverence that no one had ever given it before. "What about the boy?"

"The one… you… you attacked," she stumbled out. Hermione had meant for her tone to sound confrontational. Instead, she sounded like the overwhelmed teenager that she was.

"Yes," he answered simply, without a hint of remorse for the injury he caused.

"Neville is my friend," she said faintly.

That seemed to appease him, and he moved to straighten while still standing ridiculously close to her. Hermione forced her brain into action. "So what now? What do you want?"

"We would like to get through this war, and I will  _ ensure _ you do as well."

His certainty derailed Hermione further, on someone else his attitude would have seemed arrogant, but his assertion seemed sincere. "But you don't know me,” Hermione protested, “this is the only the second conversation we've ever had." 

_ How could he feel, whatever it was that motivated him to protect her, to seek her out, without really knowing her? _

"Remind me one day to tell you the story of how my parents met, solnyshko," Dolohov said, his voice darkening as he slipped in the Russian word, it was at odds with the way his face broke into an almost smile at the mention of his parents. Hermione felt her heart rate increase. "I'm not able to explain this to you properly, but I saw your picture and was drawn to you," he reached forward and grabbed a curl of her hair, tugging on it gently, the memory that action brought made Hermione still, the air leaving her lungs for an entirely different reason. 

Dolohov leant down to her face and rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"I… I just remembered… Rabastan Lestrange."

Her mutterings changed Dolohov’s face completely, before he had been staring at her with soft eyes, upon hearing the other Death Eater's name he stiffened, putting his large hands on her shoulders, bending his head until their eyes were level. "What about him Hermione?" he beseeched, with none of the ferocity he had questioned her with before. 

"He acted strangely the night of the Hogwarts break in," she explained, it was hard to relay what had unsettled her about Rabastan exactly, it had been as if he was familiar with her. 

"Strangely how?" Antonin pressed, and for this first time she since he had hexed Neville, Hermione thought she was seeing a glimpse of ‘notorious Death Eater' Antonin Dolohov. His tone had taken on a dark silky quality that did funny things to her stomach, and although Hermione didn't think his wrath would be directed at her, she was under no illusions that his questions were demands, not requests, for information.

"He called me by my first name and pulled on my hair," she said weakly, as other memories from that night came forward, and she shuddered.

"What Hermione? Did he touch you?" Dolohov’s eyes had blown wide, and she rushed to clarify.

"No, no... I wasn't thinking of him, it was Greyback." His mouth set in a firm line and she heard his teeth clench. 

"No," Hermione repeated, placing her hands on Dolohov’s forearms where they rested against her chest, hoping to alleviate some fierceness from the grip that had become painful at the mention of the werewolf,  _ why was she rushing to reassure him? _ "He didn't... he didn't  _ touch me _ but he was there, we were scared."

Dolohov exhaled roughly. "We?"

"Myself and Luna, Yaxley… I didn't know it was him at the time, he hid us behind a tapestry, and then Greyback was there, but he couldn't see us."

Antonin nodded and stepped forward, moving one foot in between hers to achieve it. At this point, there was no gap between them anymore, and Hermione could feel the heat of his body tingle along her skin, he moved one of his hands to her back, between her shoulder blades and pulled her into him further. It wasn't until she was tucked under his chin that she realised she had been shaking. Dolohov’s other hand dropped from her shoulder, to run rhythmically up and down her arm before finally looping around her wrist, and holding her hand. He rubbed circles over her fingers, his larger ones trailing up to the back of her hand, Hermione was pushed so close to him that she felt the minute hitch in his breath as his fingers reached the rough ridges of the scarring across the back of her hand. 

Dolohov inched his body away from Hermione slowly, and his eyes fell to read the words etched there. Hermione didn't dare breathe, after a heartbeat or two he angled his body back towards her and kissed her forehead softly, the touch scorching her flesh so acutely Hermione wondered if he had marked her again before he placed his head over hers. He waited for her breathing to even out before he spoke. 

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, his tone was gentle, soothing, he apparently wanted to provide some comfort, but Hermione wasn't fooled into believing that she could evade him, and for some reason, she found she didn't want to.

Her mind still centred on the heat remaining from his tender kiss, she answered absently, "Blood quill."

"Who?" Dolohov asked quietly.

Hermione considered her answer and bit her lip before finally, tentatively responding, "Dolores Umbridge." He nodded his head above hers once before he continued his rhythmic ministrations to the back of her hand.

They were interrupted from their silent embrace by Yaxley, coming back into the hall. Hermione tried to break away from Dolohov's hold, her cheeks suddenly flaming, but he held her firm.

"Antonin, we have two minutes, and  _ she _ needs to be out of here," Yaxley said, clearly completely unfazed at having found Antonin all but pinning her against the wall.

The man above her sighed and broke away with more than a casual air of reluctance. Once her mind had cleared enough to focus on seeing properly Hermione was aware of the assessing stare she was receiving from the recently returned Death Eater. She summoned up as much courage as she could, given the situation, and returned his gaze. "Is there something you need?" she asked firmly.

Yaxley tilted his head to the side, seemingly impressed by her little display of bravado. "Outside of reasons Antonin might have for keeping you safe, our primary goal is to get through this war,” he responded, watching her closely. Hermione felt like she was under a magnifying glass. “You're doing something at the moment... we need to know if it has a bearing on the outcome?"

"See if it's worth switching sides you mean?" she asked.

"No, not really, just want to keep alive," Yaxley replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Despite the return of her tinge of fear she squared her shoulders, "I can't tell you," she said, raising her chin.

"That's not very helpful Hermione, after all we've done for you as well," Yaxley replied coldly, his eyes narrowing at her.

"Reuben enough," Dolohov turned to face her again. "You  _ need _ to let us help you. Whatever you're doing, if it involves plans like today, you will not go long without being captured, let us help." She ignored Yaxley's scoff.

"I… I need to know I can trust you," she said, and Dolohov sighed. "No, listen, I understand what you have done for me, what you have  _ both _ done for me, but this isn't just about me it's them as well," she gestured to the boys, "and they'll be a soft touch in comparison to the rest of the Order. I need to find a way to prove I can trust you… oh!” she said suddenly, “hang on!"

Hermione dropped to the floor and pulled her beaded bag off her shoulder, raising her wand to Accio writing materials. As the items she mumbled shot into her hands, she missed the impressed, raised eyebrows of the wizards in front of her. Hermione drew her lip between her teeth and drafted out the best letter she could, given the time constraints, and then stood, brushing the dust from herself and proffered the folded parchment to Dolohov. 

"Please give this to Professor Snape,” she insisted, in as resolute a tone as she could muster.

"Snape?" Antonin answered with disbelief.

"Yes, it is some instructions on an item I need, I hope he will give it to you, then you can pass it to me,” she explained, endeavouring to sound as nondescript as possible. “If you can do this I think I will be able to trust you, and convince others to do so," she turned to face Yaxley, "and I suppose in the event of the Light winning the war, this won't hurt the case against you."

He gave her a small smile but looked far from appeased before he checked his watch again. "Antonin, we've stayed way over, time wrap it up," he said with a winding motion of his fingers before abruptly leaving the room again.

As soon as they were alone again Dolohov opened his robe revealing a large pocket on the inside, he collected a small sheaf of parchments from within and then tucked the letter she had given him amongst it. During his shuffling, a small square fell from his hand and Hermione bent down instinctively to pick it up, before she could grasp it between her fingers she noticed a tiny movement and her eyes widened as they beheld a magical photograph,  _ of her, _ taken the night of the Yule Ball, dancing with Viktor Krum. The whiteness of the parchment suggested it had come from the Daily Prophet. It must have been from one of the articles during the Triwizard Tournament.  _ Oh Merlin what must he have read about her? _ She looked up to see Dolohov looking slightly pink in the cheeks at her discovery, the bashful look was disconcerting, and Hermione found she couldn't help herself but feel a little sorry for his predicament.

"You weren't supposed to see that," he stated, not lifting his eyes. Hermione didn't know why but she didn't like seeing that side of him. The discovery at least explained how he seemed to know her when he saw her at the Ministry. 

_ How long had he been carrying a picture of her in his pocket?  _

She put her hand into her little bag again and pulled out a scrap of the same white parchment, pausing a second before handing it to him. His head snapped up immediately staring at her aghast before looking back down at the photo of himself from the day of his imprisonment. "Not my finished hour," he uttered quietly.

"Not mine either, the article I mean," Hermione replied as she nodded towards the parchment. "Evening the score again Mr Dolohov?"

His mouth twitched, "Antonin, please call me  _ Antonin. _ " She nodded, and he coughed as the air became thick and tense once more. "When will I see you again?" he asked, pushing his parchment counterpart back between her fingers. 

Hermione considered, she hated doing things like this, flying by the seat of her pants wasn't her style. "A month, the Forest of Dean, there's a natural waterfall in a bit of the wilder section, I'll meet you there at first dark."

"Ok… you'll need to Obliviate them you know," Antonin replied with a nod towards the pale boys slumped against the wall.

"No... I can't do that." Hermione was firm. Even performing the spell on Antonin had been difficult, she was sure she would have a lifelong aversion to memory charms of any kind.

Antonin huffed but didn't argue, "Is there any point in telling you to stay safe?"

She smiled, her first genuine one in his presence, "I'll try."

He moved forward again and placed both his large hands on her face. "Please do more than  _ try _ solnyshko," he murmured before tilting her head back and placing the gentlest of kisses on her lips before pulling away, all too quickly, straightening up to press another to the top of her head.

"Time to go," he whispered, and she nodded against his chest incapable of speech. Hermione broke from him, surprised by her reluctance, and observed his sad smile before moving towards the boys. Once she had securely grabbed both of their hands, she apparated them away.


	13. Chapter 13

After apparating from Grimmauld Place and appearing in the Northern forest she had envisioned, Hermione managed to put up the musty tent on her own, in record time, before levitating the still prone boys inside. The image of their limbs flopping downward was an uncomfortable reminder of Professor Snape, and the night in the Shrieking Shack during their third year. Once the boys were positioned as comfortable as she could make them, Hermione came outside again and began casting the complex matrix of protective wards she had devised and practised before the trip. She had assumed that Grimmauld Place would not have been available to them forever, they had been taking a real risk by staying in one location for so long as it was, but that did nothing to dull the reality they were now facing. 

The boys exited the tent as Hermione was adding the last of the enchantments, both thundering out into the cleared woodland ready to do battle, despite their apparent lack of coordination. Once Ron had calmed down enough to let her speak whole sentences Hermione managed to convince them, or at least Ron, that she had evaded Yaxley's spell by being under their bodies, and had waited for him to call his master, using the opportunity to crawl over them, and apparate away. She could tell Harry didn't believe her; he had the same look on his face after the Quidditch try-outs, when she had Confunded Cormac. It was a look that promised that they would speak on this later, later was fine by her. Hermione knew she would have to tell Harry eventually, aside from being one of her best friends he was the de facto leader of their mission, keeping it from him would not sit well with her sense of loyalty.

Life was hard in the tent. Grimmauld Place had been bleak, but at least there had been ample space, that space might have felt almost ‘unsafe for human occupation’ at the time, but the dilapidated house was a palace in comparison to their current environment. Hermione found herself  _ longing _ for walls, to separate herself from the boys even if it was just for ten minutes. She was the type of person that liked to avoid confrontation, and to distract herself from angst wherever possible; it was one of the reasons why she had spent so much time in the library while at Hogwarts. Living on top of each other; literally,  _ they were in bunk beds _ , was testing her admittedly short fuse.

Compounding the growing cabin fever the weather had begun to get colder, in the drafty neglected townhouse the trio had put on extra jumpers and maybe socks to sleep, in the tent Hermione found herself wearing almost everything she had, and was still never warm. As she climbed into bed at night, teeth chattering, she could feel how much weight she had lost. It had started with the necessary tightening of her belt, and now, the belt had no more notches. Hermione wasn't sure if the boys had noticed, she tried to wear big jumpers as much as possible to cover it up. Food was scarce, and was set to get even harder to come by now they were in the grip of winter.

All of this would have been enough to lead to a breaking point had they just been on the run, but hiding was only one purpose of their current predicament, the other, more important side, was the Horcruxes. Which brought Hermione’s to the locket in her list of woes. If there had ever been any doubt that it carried a slither of a dark wizard's soul there was none now. It hadn’t taken long to realise the effect it had on the wearer; the magic seemed to seep into your very pores when you had it on, especially if it touched your skin. The locket misted rational thought and playing your insecurities and doubts like an expert violinist. Harry had pushed down his obvious fear, as they sat around the rickety table, all staring at it. ‘We take turns’, he had decreed, and herself and Ron had nodded gratefully. Hermione had thought it was the simplest solution, ensuring that they each got some precious respite from being the focus of the nefarious intent of the object. In practice, however, there was no relief to be found. While you were wearing the locket, you were dealing with your own issues, entrenched in its constant stream of agonising rhetoric, but as soon as it was on the next person, you would be dealing with theirs.

It was two weeks since they had left London, and every time the cold metal hit Hermione's flesh she felt sick to her stomach. At first, it had taken a while to build, the necklace, once placed on would slowly ramp up its hold on the mind until it was unbearable,  _ but now? _ When it was put on it was like it could find the holes that it had already worn into your heart, the fissures in your psyche and leached straight onto them, in a brutal attempt to rob you of your sanity. 

Dark thoughts would invade Hermione’s mind, instantly clouding at the edges of her vision, like Death Eaters swishing into battle. She was tortured with distorted images of her past. The scenarios were true enough, though it was like the memories had been smashed, and the pieces put back together in a haste, so the pictures didn't quite fit. She saw everything from a new angle. Hermione observed herself as a young girl, at Muggle primary school, standing just on the outside of a group of laughing girls, wanting so desperately to be included but at the same time fearful of them actually talking to her, in case she said something wrong, unless she revealed herself not to understand them and was humiliated. In these slide shows her hair and teeth were bigger, her skin paler, her eyes more dead. It wasn’t long before she couldn't discern what was honest memory, and what was the lockets taunting. 

Hermione saw visions of herself at Hogwarts, dressed in regulation-length skirts and bouncing up and down on her seat, hand aloft, desperate to get validation from her professors and peers. In these scenes the vision-Hermione would suddenly become aware that everyone was laughing at her, the bully’s sneers grew louder, and even the professors regarded her with disdain. The faces of the other children would close in and Hermione would feel her throat dry, and her chest constrict. 

When she wasn't plagued by visions, the locket would whisper to her, in a breathy voice, the sound waking her in the blackness of night. He would come to her, the disembodied voice, as she laid on her bed, watching Ron and Harry talking over books. 

_ 'They don't love you, Hermione, not as you love them, you are only around for your brain, you are expendable _ '. He would confide, in a soothing tone that wrapped around her consciousness.

_ 'When this is all over, they will go off and get married, the last six years won't matter, they won't want you around anymore, they won't need you for anything'.  _

_ 'Antonin isn't attracted to you Hermione, how could you be so stupid? They are playing with you, silly child'.  _

_ 'Your parents are never getting their memories back Hermione, if this war is ever over you will find them, but they'll look at you, their eyes free of recognition. They will no longer have any indication they had a daughter; you did that to them… you took away their choice'.  _

Whatever line the locket took the ending was always the same,  _ 'you will be alone Hermione, all alone'. _

The effect of prolonged exposure to the poisoned metal for Hermione was that she collapsed in on herself, she felt her confidence slip away, she wasn't sleeping, she became afraid, edgy, and totally wrung out. The results for Harry were similar. They spoke about it after he broached the subject tentatively one night, confiding through stilted words and averted glances that he saw similar things and it ended the same, he was alone,  _ all alone _ . Back under the stairs at the Dursley’s, only this time, no one was coming for him. They comforted each other as much as possible, but it wasn't enough to battle against the all-encompassing magic of the Horcrux.

In moments of glorious, though unfortunately, intermittent lucidity, Hermione was filled with a burning desire to hug Ginny. She had always believed she had understood the severity of what had happened to the young girl in her first year, and Hermione remembered with a pang in her chest what Ginny’s hollowed out eyes had looked like even months late.  _ But now _ ? Now Hermione understood all those nights she had come back to the common room, after a late night study session, to find the usually exuberant redhead staring into the dwindling flames of the hearth vacantly. Words like these, taunting sentences that preyed on your deepest insecurities, cast long shadows.

Ron's reactions were different, the voices that invaded his mind while he was wearing the locket caused him to lash out at Hermione and Harry. His eyes changed when he wore it, from the moment it settled around his neck he became short and cross. He was suspicious over their closeness and would yell at Hermione constantly. Nothing she did was right, if she sat next to Harry to eat Ron would rant and rave about being the third wheel, if she positioned herself as far away as possible he would accuse them of acting out their true feelings behind his back. Hermione saw through his hollering, he was afraid, the locket was showing him ending up alone too, but while herself and Harry internalised their pain, Ron projected it. Harry, having grown up in an environment with all too many raised voices, winced the first few times Ron would shout at his other friend, but seeing how Hermione retreated rather than fighting back, it snapped something within him, leading him to scream back at Ron’s accusations, which only furthered Ron's psychosis.

Then, on the coldest day they had survived so far, the levee broke.

* * *

Ron had left the tent to retrieve whatever food could be scavenged close by. The last couple of days had been difficult for Hermione. She had not stopped thinking about her most recent meeting with Antonin, only this time it wasn’t flashes of wavy hair and intense eyes that filled her vision, it wasn’t images at all, it was guilt, gnawing at her subconscious, reminding her that she _ needed _ to tell Harry. She hadn't been sleeping, and the weight of keeping something so monumental from her friend and it was beginning to eat at her even more than the cold. She hadn't told the Death Eaters anything they could use against them, she argued in her mind, but she had involved them in the search, even if they didn't know that yet. Hermione believed they needed the offered help, but she wasn't sure Harry would agree, though the last few weeks in a tent might have softened him to the idea. Resolved to take the chance to speak to him while Ron was out she made her way over to the bench he was sat at, noting that Harry looked concerned as she walked towards him.

"Harry I need to speak to you," Hermione started and grimaced at the nervous wavering of her voice. "I need you to do me a favour and keep quiet, or, well, as quiet as you can," she amended.  _ Dream the impossible dream, Hermione. _ "Just please try to listen while I get through this, it's not going to be easy, and you're not going to like it, but the conversation needs to happen."

Harry looked weary but waved his hand to indicate she could continue.

"I wish to start at the beginning… I… I don't believe Dolohov tried to kill me in the Department of Mysteries," she exhaled roughly and steeled herself to meet Harry's eyes, her friend looked blindsided by her choice of topic. "The curse he fired at me was  _ experimental _ in nature, of his own design, its original intended purpose was to get him out of danger during the first war," she explained using an unemotional tone.

"How can you possibly know that?" Harry asked, his voice drenched in bemusement.

Hermione bit her lip. "He told me.” Harry sat forward open-mouthed, and she sat back, “that night, in the cafe,” she qualified, “and again when Yaxley followed us to Grimmauld Place." She had to just get the words out,  _ like ripping off a plaster _ , she told herself.

"Dolohov was there?!" Harry yelled, and Hermione fought against shrinking at the malice evident in his voice.

"Yaxley never summoned the Dark Lord, Antonin wanted to see me, he…  _ they want to help. _ " Harry's eyes had widened at the use of the Death Eaters first name, and Hermione wanted to push the slipped word back up inside her mouth.

"But why?" he asked.

"After leaving Azkaban they are determined to remain out of it, they want to help. They think we can win." She knew that was fudging the truth slightly, but baby steps.  _ Probably best to omit her 'heartfelt' exchange with Antonin and focus on other areas. _

"They want to be on winning side you mean. That's not exactly a surprise," Harry said scornfully.

"That's not what they said; they don't care about the cause, at least not vehemently,… it's about survival," Hermione protested as vigorously as she dared, though her fingers wrung in front of her. She could hardly blame Harry for the assessment; it had been the same as her first. 

"No matter who wins?" Harry cut across the table, and she nodded. "Well that's very noble," he muttered sarcastically.

"No that's Slytherin," Hermione pressed, and Harry snorted. "Dolohov has already spent almost half his life in prison, we can't understand that, but we knew Sirius, he would have done  _ anything _ not to have to go back there."

" _ Don't use his name, _ Hermione, that's not fair," Harry argued, shooting her a warning look.

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, "I'm just trying to get you to understand," she tried, though she felt the truth in his rebuke, it wasn’t the same.

"Understand what?" Harry snapped.

Hermione took a deep breath. "They have offered assistance."

"No, no way,” Harry replied, shaking his head madly. “ _ Are you stupid _ ? They will hand us over."

"I thought that too, still believe it sometimes, but when I go through all of the information that I have I feel… like I might be… well, starting to understand them."

Harry stared at her for a long time, his eyes never softened, but Hermione could feel that she had somehow broken through to him. "Convince me," he commanded finally, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione’s brain scrambled, trying to get a case together that would help get him onside. "Well, firstly, Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis confirmed what Dolohov said about the curse, they all thought it would have caused fatal organ failure but didn't, I was fine once I was revived." She looked up at Harry, but he made no move to speak, so she ploughed on, "Yaxley has already tried to protect me three times, and that was on instruction from Antonin," she supplied, letting hope shine in the edges of her tone.

Harry sighed and rubbed his face. "Why  _ you _ Hermione?" he asked exasperatedly.

"Well, at the Ministry Mcnair was coming and-" she deflected.

"No,” Harry interrupted, “not why the false curse, why is he trying to protect _ you? _ " he pressed, seeing through her subterfuge in a moment. 

Hermione swallowed, "Harry can we come back to that?"

"Mione," he interjected, but she was not ready to have that conversation with herself yet, let alone Harry, and they had more to cover.

"No, Harry there's... there’s more… I've… I've got them to help."

"What?!" Harry exploded, and Hermione couldn’t suppress her wince.  _ Keep calm, explain, it will all be fine, in several years he might even forgive you.  _

"I don't know if you've noticed Harry, but we are slowly being driven mad by a locket that we have no way of destroying. We have been on the run for months, and we have no idea how to get the next Horcruxes," Hermione implored, willing him to see why she had done what she did. She couldn't bare it if he thought she had betrayed them. 

"You said you had almost worked out what they all were," he accused.

"I have an idea,” she admitted, pulling through the parchment on the desk, “but to be able to get them we need to be smart."

"So, what was your great plan that involved putting us in league with  _ his _ inner circle?" Harry sneered.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself,  _ in for a penny. _ "I sent them away with a message for Professor Snape."

Harry turned, his voice expressionless and cold. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," she replied softly, determinedly meeting his eyes and raising her chin though his low tone had frightened her. 

"I can't believe you would do this, are you an idiot? Snape killed Dumbledore!" Harry seethed incredulously, he was looking at Hermione like he had never seen her before and she rushed to keep the conversation moving less he charged away before she had adequately explained herself. 

"But why?" she pressed. 

"What do you mean  _ why _ ?!" Harry was on his feet now, rage evident in the taut lines he held himself in.

"Why would he do it, Harry? Why didn't Dumbledore fight? There are some things you don't know about Professor Snape ok."

"Like what?" he asked in disbelief.

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. "At the end of the fifth year I knew it wasn't going to be safe for my parents for long, so I started planning, Professor Snape came to warn me as soon as he knew there was a potential threat. He helped me get them to safety, got me to safety, Yaxley warned me too… well, I didn't know it was him at the time, but he did."

Harry fell back into the seat next to her with a jolt and reached for her hand, "Hermione,” he asked gently, “What did you do?”

Hermione sniffed, “I did what I had to.” Harry didn’t seem appeased by her answer, but she knew he wouldn’t press. Not on this. 

“I’m sorry... I... You should have told me," he whispered.

"It's fine Harry, you had enough to be worrying about," Hermione choked out passed the lump in her throat.

"That doesn't change what you did, that you involved them," he said, though his tone was softer now.

"I know it doesn't," Hermione conceded, deflating against his shoulder.

"Well… what message did you send?" he asked.

"I think there's a Horcrux in Hogwarts, and there is definitely a way to destroy them there."

"The Sword?" he mused allowed and she nodded, immediately feeling relieved that Harry had come to the same conclusion, he rubbed his hand over his face. "I wondered. And so now you've told Snape about them, he will hide them better," he said resigned. 

Hermione shook her head, her tangled curls swaying limply. "I gave him an opportunity to help us. If he does, we will lend our support, at his eventual trial."

"And what about the others? How are they involved?"

"Well, we can't go marching into Hogwarts and ask the new headmaster. They will take the letter, we we meet them in a month, or well, a couple of weeks now, and they will hand it over."

“It won’t be that simple Mione,” Harry warned, though he snaked an arm around her back. 

“It never is Harry,” she replied with a mirthless laugh. 

Harry sat forward and pulled the parchments still resting under her fingers, looking for the list that they had been working on for months. "What is it?"

"The lost diadem of Ravenclaw," Hermione replied, determined.

"That… that makes sense. So they will bring the crown and the Sword?" he pressed, his voice almost calm now though Hermione was still on edge.

"No just the diadem. Professor Snape won't trust them either and if he is going to show he is assisting he will want a way of being able to do that without potential interference."

Harry sagged further into his seat, "Hermione I wish you'd told me about this before."

"Honestly Harry… I wish I had too," unwittingly her eyes filled with tears. "I didn't want you to be upset after the incident in the cafe, you have a tendency of reacting badly, and then the Grimmauld Place meeting was sprung on me, I had to make a decision on the spot and you know I'm crap at that."

Harry shuffled closer to her on the bench and falteringly wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "This is going to take me a while to process," he said, and Hermione nodded against his chest. "What happens if they tell the Dark Lord what we are doing?"

"They don't know anything, we will cross the bridge of telling them more information soon, we are due to meet them at the end of the month, if they don't turn up we're no more screwed than we were this morning."

Harry pulled her tighter against him and tears fell from her eyes as the stress of the last few months collided with the relief of finally telling Harry some of it. She wished Luna was there, her friend would smile knowingly at her, plait her disgusting hair, and tell her everything was going to be ok. With her soothing tone and reassuring manner Hermione would have believed her. As her tears gave way to sobs, Harry gathered her into his lap, probably needing the comfort as much himself, and he whispered soothing words into her ear as he buried his face in her hair.

That was how Ron found them.

"Are you kidding?!" his loud yell startled them both, and they jumped apart. "What can't keep your hands off her anymore, is that it Harry?"

"Ron," she tried.

"Shut it, Hermione, this is what you've wanted all along isn't it? You two must have been  _ overjoyed _ when I volunteered to go out this morning," he stalked towards them. "I'm done, I'm  _ so sick _ of both of you thinking you're better than me. You know what? You're welcome to each other," he spat.

"Ron," Harry said in a calm tone, naturally eager to quell the building fury, " _ nothing  _ is going on between Hermione and me, not now not ever."

Ron, however, was already too far gone. "Really? What other excuse is there for the lack of progress? I was almost hoping you were fucking her, at least that would explain why we're still stuck in a field."

Ignoring his words and pushing down the hurt, Hermione tried again, reminding herself that it was the locket talking. "You knew this wasn't going to be easy Ron."

"Yes, I knew that... I'm not as stupid as you think Mione," he bit out. "But I assumed you had a plan… Something that would not be slowly starving to death in a tent."

Harry’s eyes flashed, and Hermione knew they weren't headed for a resolution this time when he spoke. "If it's that  _ difficult _ for you why don't you leave? Go back to your family Ron, where it's safe, where it's easy-"

"Harry please, you don't mean that," Hermione interjected desperately.

"No, I do,” Harry protested. “I'm sick of this Mione, he's not the only one who is having a shit time, but he's the only one complaining constantly."

Ron stalked forward and rising to his full height, shoved Harry in the chest knocking him to the ground before ripping the locket off his throat and throwing it at him. "Oh don't worry, I'm going." Ron turned on his heel walking out of the tent and was… gone.

* * *

Antonin had only been stood at the end of the long drive for seconds when he heard the pop of apparition next to him, as he turned Reuben appeared with his arms crossed looking totally unimpressed. Rather than waiting for the now familiar argument to begin again, Antonin set off, walking towards Hogwarts castle, secretly relieved when he heard a secondary crunch of gravel, letting him know his friend was following him.

"Why are we going through with this again?" Yaxley asked almost petulantly.

Antonin sighed, he didn't have a very good answer to that question. Sure it was a good idea to hedge their bets, help out the trio and have something to offer the Wizengamot for clemency if the Light won, but that wasn't why he was here, and his friend knew it. 

"Because she asked me to," Antonin answered honestly.

"Why is that a good enough reason again?" Reuben moaned.

"Because I'm doing it, and I asked you come,” his declaration was met with silence, Yaxley's protests were more for show than anything else, they both knew he would do whatever Antonin asked, as he had done time and time again over the years.

"Ok, well,” Reuben began again, his tone brightening, “we have a long walk ahead of us and, having pulled myself from the Ministry today to complete this fool's errand I am in desperate need of entertainment.” His eyes flashed wickedly, “so tell me again how you accidentally dropped the picture you have been carrying around in your pocket for two years, right in front of her." Antonin dropped his head into his hands, "come now don't hold out on me,” Reuben teased, “this maybe my favourite bit of your unconventional romance, so far, and let me remind you this story began with her thinking you were trying to kill her."

“I haven’t been carrying it around for that long,” Antonin muttered.

Yaxley laughed, “Fine you humourless pendant, two years, less the time you were back in Azkaban. Though I’m not sure you want to fixate too hard on the time  _ I _ was carrying her around in my pocket.”

Antonin grunted as Reuben waggled his eyebrows, through his heart wasn’t in it, he was still too focused on his embarrassment. "I can't believe I told you," he said, resigned to what would probably be a lifetime of grief. He had been left stunned by the all too brief encounter with the little witch, and in his ruffled state, he had spoken before he could get a hold of himself, by that point Antonin had revealed so much there was little point in holding out on the rest of the details from Reuben’s consistent probing.

"If she ever asks, I'll tell her you made me work for it,” Reuben laughed out. “What I really can't believe is that she was carrying a picture of you, and not just any picture an _arrest photo_. She's not got some weird fetish, has she? I heard some Muggles write love letters to famous prisoners."

"How on earth would you know that?" Antonin asked incredulously, whipping his head around to face him.

"I've been with enough half-bloods in my time, I hear things," Reuben shrugged,  _ as if that was in any way an answer.  _

Antonin ignored him, he really wasn't looking forward to today's task and was even less desirous to discuss Hermione's possible  _ fetishes _ with his friend. 

"Well, we can at least hope that if we eventually end up in prison, your little pistol will campaign to be able to send letters to her  _ dear, sociopathic, murdering boyfriend, _ " Antonin snorted. "But if she sends you anything racy you have to share."

Yaxley seemed to pick up on Antonin's growing weariness, finally, and changed tack, "At the Ministry today there was talk about them, the trio, they appear to be focussing in on  _ her _ … they believe she would be the easiest to crack if they got hold of them," the wizards exchanged a wry look, "they've ordered another search on her home."

"They won't find anything," Antonin said confidently.

"I know,” Yaxley agreed. “I was there the first time, there was no trace of her parents, wherever they went they haven't been discovered, we couldn't find any sign that she had ever even lived there."

Antonin rubbed the back of his neck, "I think she did something, something to do with a memory charm, I've seen her react badly to it a couple of times," he divulged. He couldn't be certain, but it had been nagging at his brain since the cafe.

"Wow, that was... thorough," Reuben replied, looking up thoughtfully. 

Antonin fell into that relaxed way of speaking he did when with people he trusted fully. "She would do anything for the people she loves," Yaxley merely raised his eyebrows though his lips quirked into a slight grin. Antonin huffed, "Just... Shut up."

"Sorry, sorry,” Yaxley said placatingly, “on a more serious note, I've heard a couple of other things about her at the Ministry this week," he said, much more gravely.

"Oh?" Antonin asked not liking where this was going.

"Apparently one Dolores Umbridge, Head of the Muggleborn Registration Committee, was her teacher during their fifth year… Well, you've met her Antonin can you imagine? She took to the school like she was running her own little state, blood quills for punishments, unlimited power and rules. She caught them, the kids, that night before the Department of Mysteries, and your little sunshine led her into the Forbidden Forest before leaving her to the mercy of a herd of centaurs." Antonin's mind had fogged slightly, first at the mention of Umbridge, then blood quills, remembering the feeling of the word carved into her delicate skin. "Are you listening?" Yaxley asked.

"Sorry lost in thought."

"The idea that the little lion has sharper teeth than you thought? Don't know about you Dolohov but I was more than a little aroused when I heard," Yaxley teased.

"For the love of Merlin, will you fuck off?"

It took several minutes for Reuben to calm enough to continue walking again, Antonin couldn't blame Yaxley for taking this opportunity to poke at him, the Northern wizard hadn't been able to rattle him like this since they were boys, and was enjoying his new restlessness a little too much. Once Yaxley had stopped laughing Antonin turned to him full of resolve, his face settling into a much less relaxed expression. "I need a favour."

"Antonin I’m already here on a Saturday afternoon, preparing to engage in an awkward as fuck conversation with Snape  _ willingly _ , you honestly want more from me today?”

"Yes."

"Go on then, astound me," Yaxley articulated dramatically.

"Umbridge,” he said crisply, “I want her dead."

Yaxley looked at him, a grin splitting across his face. “Why didn't you say something earlier? That I can do."

* * *

It was evident that Snape was surprised to see them, though he tried to cover his discomfort at their sudden appearance with a disdainful glance that Antonin had no problem believing was truthful. Many people underestimated the Potions Master, whether for his ‘unfortunate blood’, or his choice of profession, but Antonin had always known there was more to the dour man than met the eye. He was clearly willing to go further than most to achieve his goals, a trait he could empathise with.

Snape had joined the Dark Lord because no one else gave him a place, not because it was his first pick. He was obviously an intelligent man, well above the curve of their usual colleagues, though considering that line up contained a deranged werewolf, a psychotic rapist and well, whatever you would classify Bella as, that wasn't exactly a compliment. Not that Snape was any less a monster, he was just a sane one.

Antonin hadn't been in the headmaster's office since he had been at Hogwarts, as a student though Snape didn't seem to have changed it much. He idly wondered what that indicated; respect for his former employer? Guilt? Or maybe just a total disinterest. Snape seemed to bury every emotional response so far down it was possible that even he didn't know what he felt about  _ anything _ anymore.

The newly appointed headmaster of Hogwarts had stood when they entered, though not as a sign of respect, sitting would have left him at too much of a disadvantage. The professor moved around the desk and perched on the front of it with faked casualness, if you weren't looking closely you may have missed the slight twitch of his wand hand, indicating readiness, they had  _ all  _ been doing this too long.

For the first time in his recent memory, Antonin felt at a slight disadvantage. He had no knowledge of what the note from Hermione contained, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't opened it. If he was going to be truthful with himself, which he had been endeavouring to do lately, he knew why he hadn't. She was smart his girl,  _ wasn't that what Yaxley had called her _ ? He wouldn't have put it past her to spell the envelope, and he didn't want the first thing she said, after not seeing him for a month, to be a rebuke for not trusting her, especially when Antonin was pushing for her to trust him.

Yet Hermione had sent them there without having an accurate understanding of how the dynamics in  _ his _ world worked. They were asking for something, they had nothing to offer in return, and they were dealing with another Slytherin, as well as potentially exposing a shift of their allegiances. Antonin wasn't certain what would signify a good outcome of this meeting, but he was pretty sure a bad one would be returning to his Lord to inform him he was down a headmaster.

Before the silence could stretch on too long, Snape decided to get things moving. "To what  _ gentleman, _ do I owe the pleasure?" he drawled out, his face twisted, letting them know he regarded their presence as anything but. 

"We need to talk," Antonin asserted firmly, they might be in the other man's environment, but he wanted it to be clear that _ he _ was in charge here.

"What could  _ we _ possibly have to talk about?" Snape countered.

Keen to cut down the  _ niceties _ to a bare minimum Antonin retrieved the letter from his pocket and handed it over. Snape glanced at the writing addressing it to him.

"Miss Granger?" he asked softly, and Antonin narrowed his eyes at his ability to identify her script so quickly before reluctantly nodding. 

Snape opened the note warily and then read through it eyebrows rising every couple of seconds. Once he appeared to have completed it several times, he raised his wand and incinerated the piece of parchment before looking back at up them. "It will take me a few days to get the item she wants, come back for it at the end of the week," his voice was emotionless with a note of finality.

"That's it? No questions, you're just going to do what she asked?" Yaxley voice radiated surprise.

"I don't need to explain myself to you," Snape snapped.

"What are they doing?" Antonin demanded, but Snape didn't answer. He merely eyed Antonin curiously, "She didn't tell you?" the headmaster asked, sitting back in his large chair.

"No," Antonin admitted reluctantly, he didn’t want Snape to get too much information, he already had the upper hand.

"It would appear she has more snake-like tendencies than I would have thought possible," Snape quietly muttered to himself, his face seeming to grow fond over some memory or other, Antonin glared at him. Snape sneered, "Oh, really Dolohov, she didn't tell me either."

"But you already know don't you?” he pressed.

"I know enough," Snape answered evasively.

There was an oppressive silence in the office and Antonin was weighing over how exasperating the meeting had been when Snape spoke again. "How?” He began, examining some object on his desk as if to appear disinterested, “How did you find them?"

"They broke into the Ministry to steal a locket," Yaxley replied, and Snape laughed, actually laughed. Antonin wasn't sure he had ever seen the man even grimace in a parody of a smile before, let alone laugh. The headmaster muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like  _ Gryffindor's. _

"She is well?" Snape asked tentatively, not quite managing a mask of indifference, Antonin regarded him, he seemed to genuinely care about the answer. It was not lost on either of the visitors that he asked after her and not the boys, and without being consciously aware of it, Antonin stood straighter squaring his shoulders. Snape rolled his eyes at his posturing. "Did you expect me to ask after Potter?"

"She is ok, a little thin but ok," Yaxley answered, rightly assessing that Antonin was not ready to speak yet.

Snape looked contemplative then his eyes seemed to flash for a second. "Which one of you warned her?"

Antonin felt his hands begin to twitch ready to reach for his wand. 

"I did," Yaxley confirmed gruffly, and Snape glared at him.

"That look might work on your firsties Severus, but you can fuck off if you think I'm going to tell you anything because you glanced at me,” Reuben snapped before suddenly stepping back and waving his arms in front of his face aggressively. “Stay the fuck outta my head." 

The headmaster turned away and looked at Antonin. "You Dolohov, really?" He was saved from response by Snape laughing again, "Well, the girl was named after a Shakespearean character, and she reads extensively, I’m sure she is well versed in the concept of romantic tragedy, which is fortuitous for both of you, I imagine."

Antonin had had enough and leant forwards toward the Potion’s Master at the same time that Snape got up out of his chair and pointed his wand at him. “Careful Dolohov,” he said impassively, “you would do well not to let your passion run away from you, and for all our sakes  _ try  _ and be a bit less obvious,” he snapped, his voice full of contempt. “If anyone detects your  _ interest _ she will have an even bigger target on her back than the substantial one she already carries.”

Yaxley moved an arm across Antonin’s shoulders and pulled him towards the door. “Snape we’re leaving,” he barked as if he wasn't  _ dragging _ Antonin from the room, “have whatever it is she wants in three days, we are coming back for it.”

“Fine,” the headmaster snapped, falling back into his seat. “Oh, and Dolohov?” he called, as Antonin made it to the doorway. “If by intention or not, she gets in more trouble because of you, I’ll kill you myself.”

* * *

After the bleak and seemingly unending depravity of the Christmas ‘holidays’, Antonin heard that the little blonde Ravenclaw, from the Ministry, had been picked up off the Express. His Lord was displeased with what her father had been writing in his barmy paper, so she was to be taken to ensure his  _ compliance _ . She was a pureblood, so the chances of her coming to any serious harm were slim, but Antonin wanted to check on her for Hermione. It was unlikely that the curly-haired witch would have heard about her imprisonment, but he wanted to be able to say he had seen her, and that he had taken steps to secure her safety.

He apparated to Malfoy Manor the first time he could legitimately find a reason to go. Yaxley had visited the previous week and was able to confirm that the girl was ok, though he had described her as ‘ _ beyond dotty’ _ . The Manor was mostly deserted, or at least he thought it was until he turned a corner walking past one of the numerous reception rooms to hear Draco Malfoy, holding court with some of the younger Death Eaters. Antonin didn't spend much time with them, they either regarded him with complete fear or covetous envy, and he had little time for either.

He was going to march straight past when he thought he heard  _ Granger  _ being mentioned.  _ Well, how many Grangers could they be talking about?  _ Antonin moved towards the door silently, not wanting to alert the inhabitants of his presence, shuffling slightly so he could see through the crack. He noticed Malfoy, as expected, and who he thought were the sons of Crabbe and Goyle, who seemed to have inherited not only their fathers build but intellect. He was as close as he could get but he could only make out snippets, it was apparent from both the tone of their voices and the smell of the room that the drink had been flowing for some time.

"-so I told Father… and well you know… Granger always... know her place… thought it would." The blond heir’s voice was covered by the sound of loud cheering from his audience. Antonin subtly moved his feet forward, so he was standing in the entrance, pushing the door marginally, so the noise would carry further.

"-he agreed… help if she would… it's the whole point… what are we... if not for this."

Antonin could feel the blood rush around his body; he closed his eyes. He knew whatever was going to follow was not going to be something he wanted to hear, but equally, he  _ needed _ to hear it, he had to make himself fully aware of any potential dangers that could befall her. 

"-can't wait to show her who's boss."

Antonin desperately moved forward again, pushing the door even wider.

"Don't get your hopes up mate, they haven't found them yet," one of Draco’s cohorts called.

"Oh, I'm not worried,” Draco responded smugly, “It's the Ministry's top priority after all, as soon as they get Hermione, Father has agreed, I can have her."

Antonin moved back from the door quickly and headed to leave the Manor; he couldn't stay here any longer, he would make enquiries about the Ravenclaw in the dungeons later, he had to get out before he lost control. Draco Malfoy would have  _ his little witch, _ over his fucking dead body.

* * *

Hermione emerged from the tent, so panic struck that she had to blink twice to comprehend the scene in front of her fully. Harry was there, not lost, as she had believed, after he had been gone for over an hour. Next to him was Ron, Ron who had left them. Both were standing in the snow, drenched down to their skin. If she wasn't already questioning her sanity, Harry holding the Sword of Gryffindor in his shaky grasp was enough to make her suspect yesterday's harvested mushrooms. It was only when Harry saw her look at Ron, and moved to hide the blade behind his body did Hermione realise how real the tableau was. Given the emotions swirling within her, that had been a wise move.

Ron looked pensive, but Hermione didn't care, she stepped forward, and in a movement reminiscent of her actions in the third year, she reared her hand back and punched him in the face so hard she feared she might have broken her hand, it would have been worth it. 

"Ow... fuck Hermione!" He yelled, wincing as he held a hand across his nose and eye. 

"Locket or no locket Ronald Weasley, _ never  _ speak to me like that again,” she spat at him. “Welcome back to starving, freezing and crying, hope you're on board now," she all but hissed, before storming back into the tent. 

Hermione knew Harry would have forgiven Ron as soon as he saw him, it had always been simple for them, but she was loyal to a fault, and Ron leaving them was something that she knew she could never get over, not completely. They would be friends again, of course, but she would never trust him fully… not like she did Luna or even Harry.

Hermione ignored them both for the rest of the evening; it wasn't hard, she had been exhausted for days, having not really slept since she and Harry escaped from Godric's Hollow. At least having Ron back meant she didn't have to feel guilty about climbing into bed and letting sleep take her. She had no desire to remain awake to hear Harry filling Ron in, filling him in on events he would have known about if he had done the decent thing and been here. A cursory glance at him had been enough to see how he had filled out; Hermione bitterly wondered how life had been for him over the last weeks. She pinched the scant flesh at her hips absentmindedly, hating herself for feeling ashamed of the state she was in. She didn't deserve to feel humiliated that she was too thin or that it had been too long since she had properly washed. Hermione turned her back to them, in the bunk, and buried down amongst the meagre sheets, hoping to get warm enough to sleep through the worst of her anger.

The next morning when Hermione woke she was feeling more at peace, she was as well rested as she had been in weeks, and calm enough to hear Harry's version of events from the day before. Repeatedly glancing at Ron's blooming black eye helped.

When Harry had finished the tale of his near drowning, he placed the remains of the locket on the table and it fell with a soft clang; the metal was corroded, kinked and twisted. 

_ It was gone, finally gone.  _

Suddenly everything didn't feel so futile; they had achieved something. Hermione didn't want to bring it up with Ron here, but she could see by the looks Harry was shooting her he was considering the same thing; if they had the Sword, it meant Professor Snape had come through for them. Hermione allowed her mind to wander to Antonin; she realised then just how much she was hoping he would do the same. Ron wouldn't be happy with their new allegiance, but she couldn't find it within herself to care.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something a little bit different. There were two scenes I wanted to include while outlining this story, that I couldn't do from either Antonin or Hermione's point of view. I had planned these as one shots for the end but was motivated to include them now, as this is when they occur in the timeline.
> 
> Fan casts: Rabastan Lestrange - Colin O'Donoghue (another from the beautiful mind of Thrifty Crimson).

Rabastan Lestrange POV

Everything had been tough since Azkaban. After the initial breakout and transportation to Malfoy Manor, ‘the escapees’, as they had become known, were expected to carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Only a few days of ‘training’ and they were packed off onto missions as if they had just been out of the loop for a while, not festering in a cell, clinging desperately to the fraying edges of their sanity.

For the first few days even washing and dressing had been difficult, fuck even breathing had been difficult. Adjusting to space, colour, noise, to people, to smells even. Then before Rabastan had even settled into the  _ idea _ of being released, or begun to make peace with the revelation of just  _ how much _ time he had lost, he was back there again. Back in hell, with only himself for company. Rabastan didn’t know about any of the others, but he had already spent decidedly too much time inside his own head.

Rabastan had only been twenty-four when he had first been imprisoned, full of youth and determination. It had taken months, maybe even years before he had begun to succumb to the sweet numbness, the painlessness that madness promised. On his return to incarceration, it had been mere days before the voices again, the whispers steadily building in his mind, purring gilded assurances of the peaceful tranquillity of oblivion. Then he had been thrown back, into the world again, and this time there wasn’t even a gentle incline but a straight drop into fully blown war. In some ways it was easier, there was less time to focus on how fucked they all were if they had to keep themselves alive. 

Returning to  _ their  _ Manor had felt like an out of body experience, Rabastan had never made it back there the first time. He had been hauled up with the rest of the ‘lost souls’, forced to exist under the  _ hospitality  _ of the Malfoys and he had been just as unhappy as everyone else with the situation. ‘But they’re your family’ Rowle had muttered, and Rabastan had scoffed, his brother might have married Bella, that didn't make the Malfoy’s blood. 

Rabastan had twitched impatiently when they apparated, landing outside the achingly familiar gates, his mind rushed with long suppressed hope. He had  _ craved _ nothing else for years, save the idea of a return to his home, imagining this day was the thing that had kept him from giving up. Rabastan didn't realise how sad and pathetic that was until he opened up the doors,  _ shouldn't there have been more to wish for than that? _

While in prison he had practised building walls in his mind, attempting to protect the core of who he was. He reassured himself daily that there would be a better life waiting for him, when he finally left the grey windowless box;  _ you will get out of here Rabastan, you will go home, it will be fine, it will all be fine _ . 

Except it wasn't. 

Rabastan may have left Azkaban with just enough sanity to function, but walking through his home for the first time in decades, to discover it was just as cold, hollow and neglected as he was, nearly broke him. The shock of finding that the purest desire of his heart was not enough to fix him made the first proper meal Rabastan had eaten in over a year turn to ash in his mouth.

He and his brother moved around Lestrange Manor like ghosts, the estate was farcically big for two inhabitants, and they took to containing their existence to one or two main rooms. His once beloved home was mocking him with every walk past the abundance of space in the family wing, making Rabastan face the reality of the life he did not have, that he may never have. The life he had missed out on.

Rodolphus' rabid wife never stayed there anymore, years ago Rabastan would have said it made him glad, but that was when it had still had an effect on his brother's mood, it made no change now. Rodolphus had closed in on himself, his shock remembering of a past life had turned him cold to his current reality, prison or not, Rodolphus' heart had died a long time ago. Marrying Bella had been the beginning of the decay forming within him, Rodolphus had joined with her to keep their father happy, and only for that reason. He had held it off as long as possible, but the Black family had been persistent, and he capitulated, at the age of twenty. His brother had been granted three years post-Hogwarts, to learn from their father the responsibilities that would come be his when he was the head of the family. 

Ever the doting older brother, Rodolphus had protected Rabastan from the same fate. Dolph had argued with their father for six  _ long  _ years before his death. Once his brother had taken over as Head of House, Dolph blocked the marriage contracts his father had been considering, and left Rabastan to decide his fate.

Rabastan had not deserved his protection, only months earlier he had forced Dolph to relinquish the only happiness he had in his life. Rabastan had been too young at the time to understand what his counsel would do, but he understood now. Understood what he had snatched away from him, the most important person in his life. 

Dolph had thrown himself into life with their Lord after that. He told Rabastan once, after a particularly gruesome mission that led to a rather large consumption of firewhisky, that he had hoped that all of the hate filled rhetoric, and rage infused violence would spur him to feel  _ something,  _ anything other than constant numbness, but it hadn’t. At the time Rabastan hadn't accepted his brother's retreat from life, Dolph had always been a good deal more introspective than himself. He believed it to be a phase, something that he would work through and get to the other side of. 

He understood now.

Then there was the _ girl _ , sparkly, bright and pure, so much purer than him, than any of them. Rabastan didn't want to drag her into this, but he needed to. His brother needed to know, they both needed to know. She couldn't save them, they were passed that, but she could help... she could make them remember, help them rebuild. He'd do just about anything to have Rodolphus back as he had been. Even if that meant going against his express wishes to do it.

Then word reached him; Rabastan read the note in his hand three or four times before he absorbed it. ‘Captured, brought in’. He forced himself to consider before acting,  _ play the long game _ . He tried to think like Dolph,  _ what would he say? _ Assess first, strategise, then act. He didn't want to tell Rodolphus yet, an incredibly selfish part of him wanted to keep it all to himself. Keep  _ her _ all to himself, at least for now.

He made his way to Malfoy Manor; Rabastan didn't pause upon walking through the ostentatious doors, he purposely didn't announce his arrival, or find anyone to pay his respects to. This wasn't a home anymore, and even if it was, he certainly didn't owe the Malfoys anything. He had known Lucius and Narcissa his whole life, on the surface they had been raised the same, all of them children of the incredibly well-bred stock of the remaining sacred twenty-eight families. That's where the similarities had ended. Lucius had been the butt of many jokes when they had attended the same parties in their youth, mainly thanks to his ridiculous coiffured appearance. When they were free of Azkaban the first time, to find Lucius had taken on his late father's affectation of carrying around that ridiculous cane, it had given Rabastan something very similar to a feeling of mirth he would have had in his late teens. The laugh was a pale imitation of past remembrances but it was something close to emotion, so he would take it.

Rabastan made his way down to the dungeons, his legs taking him the familiar route without much thought required. The dank corridor was unguarded, but he had been expecting that. It wasn't like the Order were going to burst through the doors to protect and rescue her, or any of them here, it wasn't their style. Most of the Death Eaters, both those that had been around in the first war and new recruits had been educated at Hogwarts, where they had learnt, among other things, the difference between  _ vital _ and  _ expendable _ . 

Rabastan had a lot of experience with expendable. 

As the second son born to a family with both money and a rich ancestry, he was the spare, expected to marry well, and follow orders. When he got to school, he had met a headmaster that had already written him off along with most of his peers, placing them all under the header of ‘without possible reform’, and therefore, superfluous to his cause. From all he had seen, Rabastan's definition of vital meant malleable, and while he would have bowed and scraped for his father or his Lord, he wouldn't have done that for Albus bloody Dumbledore. The headmaster did not seem to comprehend that generations of pureblood, mainly Slytherin, students had been raised with a clear understanding of machinations, they saw through his twinkling eyes, grandiose words and proffered confectionary and pledged their allegiance to a man who would see them,  _ really see them _ .

So Rabastan recognised the signs when he saw someone that would not be moulded through affectations, broken promises or lemon drops, and he saw it in her.

They weren't coming.

Rabastan reached the foot of the stairs and moved down the row of filthy cells, examining their contents; he had got right to the end before he found her. She was in a cell, by herself, away from everyone else. While the other prisoners were bundled together, seeking comfort, she was all alone. The cell was vast, at least in comparison to the box that Rabastan had spent half his life in, but he couldn't say she was making use of the space. She was curled up in the smallest little pile of limbs imaginable in a far corner. He could see her face, her features completely devoid of expression, as she fixed the far wall with an impassive stare. She looked thinner than usual. He might not have even recognised her if it wasn't for her distinctive hair.

Rabastan had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire, lonely existence.

Her clothes were tattered and torn, Rabastan assumed they had been the ones she had arrived in, he doubted they were warm enough for the current weather. She must have had a robe when they took her, _ where did it go? _ At the thought of any of her clothes being removed against her will he felt hot bile in the back of his throat, Rabastan held a hand to the cold flagstone wall to steady himself.

When he felt slightly more centred Rabastan returned his eyes to her, she was covered in dirt, smudges covering the pale skin of her exposed forearms. He noticed she was shivering, it hadn't been obvious at first, but her slight trembling became visible as he continued to stare at her. After five minutes of unbroken focus, she still hadn’t made any reaction to indicate she even knew he was there.

Already that morning Rabastan had been to the kitchens at home to collect some food, it gave the elves something to do, a task they practically jumped at. So pleased to be needed they had even listened when he had instructed that only simple food would do, Rabastan knew himself that after weeks of consuming little, rich food was likely to make her sick. He didn't want her to assume he had tampered with it to make her so.

Rabastan moved closer to the bars as slowly as possible, if she really hadn't noticed him up to now, he didn't want to startle her. "I brought you some food," he spoke in his softest tone.

She looked up then and tilted her head to the side to see him clearer before dropping her head back down into her body. Rabastan quickly averted his eyes from her gaze. He wasn't one for eye contact especially with one like her. He could feel her vacuous eyes penetrating his mind in a way that reminded him of his Occlumency lessons as a boy, though he knew no spell had been employed. He Transfigured a plain piece of parchment from his pocket into a simple tray and retrieved the bread that the elves had surrendered after attempting to load him down with a picnic basket. Rabastan put the tray on the ground and slid it up to the bars, wincing as he watched clouds of disturbed dust billow around it,  _ she shouldn't be somewhere like this. _

"Will you eat something?" he pressed, though she still didn't move. "Please… I haven't done anything to it," he implored gently.

"I know you haven't," she answered faintly, her voice sounded hoarse like she hadn't spoken for days, in fact, she probably hadn't.

"Will you eat then?" Rabastan urged, his ability to help was limited at the moment, if he could just get her to eat something he had a hope of convincing himself that he had supported her, at least in some small way. He already knew her blotchy face was going to be visiting his nightmares that evening; he would need an act to remind himself he was doing  _ something _ in hopes of alleviating the haunting dread he would feel when he woke in the dead of night, cold, yet sweating.

Very slowly she stood, her small legs wobbling slightly as she walked ungainly towards the bars like a new-born foal  _ when was the last time you stood? When was the last time you moved at all?  _ She sat back down with a bit of a thud and falteringly moved her hands through the metal rods to grasp a piece of bread.

They sat in total silence while she gradually and methodically pulled the hunk apart, eating tiny piece after tiny piece. Chewing on mouthfuls no bigger than seeds until, once she had consumed about half, she placed it back down on the tray. "Thank you," she whispered.

He coughed to clear his throat, uncomfortable with having her thanks. "I'm Rabastan Lestrange," he introduced awkwardly, the need for her to  _ know _ him at the forefront of his mind. 

"I know," she said, utterly devoid of any feeling, judgement, condemnation or well, anything. 

Rabastan felt an unexpected surge of happiness that she knew who he was, that he wasn't just some nameless, faceless Death Eater to her, until his mind chimed in with  _ how  _ she probably knew; articles in the Daily Prophet, lectures from the Order. He wanted, no  _ needed _ , his name to mean something different to her.

After she had resumed eating and all the bread was gone Rabastan left, promising that he would be back, she made no response, she said not another word since affirming she knew who he was, and he had been content to bask in her nearness, even in silence. Rabastan watched as she rose up again to move back to the position he had found her in, curled in a small ball, her back to the bars.

He kept his promise, and his visits followed along the same lines for the first week. Rabastan brought simple food, and they would sit in silence while she ate it haltingly. He became transfixed by the movements of her delicate fingers as they worked through the bread, and the rhythmic chewing motion of her tiny rosebud mouth.

At first, he made sure he had excuses to be at the Manor each time, but after the third visit, he no longer cared. The only full-time inhabitants were the Malfoys and Bella; the first were too engrossed in their fall from favour to care about his presence, his sister in law, too far lost to her own demons to notice his repeat attentions. Rabastan continued to try to act sensibly, to do what he could for her without losing his temper, he recognised that he needed to keep control to be able to help her. He spread the word around his comrades, anyone that touched her would die, slowly. He expected Dolph to react to that, but he merely nodded from across the room. It didn't concern Rabastan that they thought he was claiming her as a spoil of war, as long as his claim was recognised. So he ignored the guffaws, the pats on the back and the rude words, he made no outward reaction to any of it, but he also made a list. His name still carried some weight with the older crowd; he was something of a legend with the new, they simpered all over him and his brother, clawing for their patronage, it made him sick.

Rabastan barely saw anyone else in the dungeons while he was there, apart from those that came down to give food or to taunt. Yaxley ‘visited’ once while Rabastan was there, Yaxley was neither carrying food nor did he say anything to the prisoners but still he didn't think much of it, Reuben wouldn't be interested in the girl. Yaxley wasn't a rapist, and torturing one as young as her would have been difficult for him, not that he would have advertised that fact, Rabastan had been on enough missions with him to know things the older man wouldn't have wanted him to. Everyone knew that he had lost a brother before Hogwarts, Rabastan didn't know the details but was aware that the stoic Northerner had been the one to find the body. Whatever had happened Rabastan didn't feel concern over his presence, and after he had been down once he never saw him there again.

Once she was more used to his company, Rabastan took the risk of casting some healing and warming charms over her. She did not react to him raising his wand, she met his eyes defiantly, and they did not reflect fear. He wanted to believe that he had won her trust, but was concerned that her spirit had been broken. Rabastan wondered how much it would hurt his soul if her eyes went permanently blank. When seconds passed, and the spells settled over her body, he watched enraptured as her little mouth tugged in the ghost of a smile. Rabastan revelled in the tender emotion on her face. When she serenely thanked him he started at the pounding of his heart; it felt ready to beat right out of his chest.

Over time they exchange some conversation, he had to coax it from her slowly, like teaching a wild animal to feed from the palm of your hand, though he feared no bite from her, just that she might turn away one day.

Weeks passed, and he kept all of his muttered promises. She moved to the bars as soon as she saw him now, she no longer assessed the food he brought for ages before partaking, Rabastan called it progress.

Months passed, and their conversation wasn't always tranquil now. She argued with him about his opinions in her own roundabout way; Rabastan told her off for not eating enough, he had the elves from his home deliver food while he was not there. They had taken to caring for her in a way that he and his brother hadn't let them for years. They had her in some newer, warmer clothes. Rabastan had the money to get her anything, but the possessive man he was raised to be, insisted he gave her some of his items. The first time he came down the stairs to see her clad in a pale blue jumper of his he was speechless, the light colour made her pale, now clean skin almost glow, she looked even stranger in her surroundings now. It made Rabastan think of Persephone, a creature of the light forced to live in a dark world she didn't belong to, he pushed the thought away, he could not dwell on what he was condemning her to.

Rabastan knew she must have been close to trusting him when she hesitantly asked about her friends one afternoon. He stuttered through his response, he had no information to give her. It was the first time she had ever asked for anything; he had begged before now for her to make a request of him. The first time she did, he could not fulfil her desire, and he felt like he had broken a promise. 

She cried softly, the water building at the corners of her eyes first before ploughing in vast tracks down her cheeks. She didn't wipe her face as the tears pooled at her jaw before falling in heavy drops onto the dirty floor. She made no noise; she didn't sob or whine she just gave herself over to sadness. He hated her tears, hated them more than his empty house and his empty heart. Rabastan hated them more than his broken brother and his broken soul. Her display of emotion made him crack slightly; he had moments like this,  _ episodes  _ Dolph called them. When he was little, he used to try to explain that they happened when he had too many feelings to contain inside his body, so they needed to be expelled. That definition seemed a little juvenile now, but it didn't make it any less accurate.

When Rabastan could not soothe her, he tried to prevent himself from giving into the urge to destroy, the desire for the carnage that pulsed through his blood and twisted his mind till he could barely think straight. He collapsed to the ground and brought his head down to rest on his knees. He put his hands in his hair and pulled on the rough strands, gripping handfuls at a time, Rabastan felt a few follicles come loose, the pain grounding him, not enough to stop the spiralling but enough to stop him from killing something... for now. Rabastan struggled to imagine holding on to the fraying edges of his self-control. It was a visualisation his brother helped him with after their mother had died, and Rabastan had been found amongst the wreckage of her once pristine rose garden, panting and despondent. Dolph had held him while Rabastan had tried to articulate that it hurt too much to see them anymore, the blood red of the roses she favoured, their petals growing up towards the heat of the sun while she laid flat and cold in the ground. Dolph had carried him to bed, and the next day the mess was gone, and the elves were busy planting tulips in their place, his mother had been indifferent to tulips. The tulips didn't hurt his chest when he saw them.

Rabastan didn't want to look up, didn't want her to see this side of him. She must have already known he was not a good man, but to see him like this, so ravaged mentally, he couldn't face the imagined expression on her pretty face as she recoiled, either from fear or disgust, or both. He was too lost, too raw to be able to trust himself if he saw those things etched into her face.

Lost to his self-pity, Rabastan jumped when he felt a small weight rest on his thigh, and opening his eyes he saw a pale hand there, applying gentle pressure. She was touching him,  _ willingly _ . Rabastan breathed in and out raggedly and looked up to meet her face. Her large eyes regarded him vacantly, like usual, no fear, no hate, and no pity.

She was so beautiful.

"Why are you not afraid of me?" He hated asking the question, betraying weakness in a way that years of training, lessons learnt at his father's knee, had kicked out of him, but he was compelled to know.

She shrugged, and he felt a stab of annoyance, suspecting her of being evasive but his temper cooled as he concentrated on the rhythmic pressure on his thigh, he was conscious of a certainty wash over him. He didn't believe her to be capable of lying.

Rabastan felt obligated to push her away;  _ he _ shouldn't have let her get this close, he shouldn't have got this close. She was too good, too immaculate. So pure his mind whispered he would leave a dirty mark on her skin if he so much as touched her. 

That's why he'd never asked for the key. 

He'd thought about it... A lot, more than was healthy, though Rabastan was aware that the ship for normal mental health parameters applying to him had sailed long ago. He knew he would get it if he asked for it,  _ the key _ , that's what they thought he was saving her for, after all, to 'claim' her. He supposed that was correct in a way; he didn't have completely selfless intentions after all. He wanted her, to claim her, to have her, but he didn't intend to force her, he  _ needed _ her to be amenable. More than that if it were truly possible. Without shared desire, without her freely given compassion, his possession of her would be as hollow as the rest of his existence. It was not the time, yet. Though Rabastan still thought about the key a great deal; he had stolen it a few times, just to look at, to feel the weight in his hands. For something that could change everything, it looked so ridiculously innocuous. Whether he took it to face his temptation, or reassure himself he still had some semblance of control, Rabastan wasn't sure. But he knew he couldn't use it, not yet. If he touched her, he wouldn't be able to let her go.

When Rabastan first saw her, he tried to tell himself he would leave her alone, that he wouldn't pursue her, wouldn't attempt to pull her into his orbit, wouldn't touch her, and wouldn't taste her. But he knew better now; he was aware that at some point he would. He had resolved himself to that. The only thing worse than the idea of touching her was the thought of not touching her.

Though he knew he would have her he couldn't help but warn her; it was the least he could do. "You should be aware this is a relatively regular occurrence," he said bitterly as he gestured to his head, jogging some of the loosened strands and watching as they fluttered to the ground. "Even my brother has started to think I've gone totally mad."

She stared up into his eyes unblinking, and Rabastan felt a calmness that hadn't existed in his head for over fifteen years, a warmth in his heart that had never been there before. This was why he could not stay away; this was why he must have her affection, she felt like home, like the years on the prison rock never happened, like he had a reason to keep on existing.

She replied eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper. "You're just as sane as I am.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Reuben Yaxley POV

Reuben stormed through the spacious Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, setting a determined pace. He felt considerably more limber that morning than he had in weeks, and his long legs carried him down the maze-like corridors quickly. Despite the relatively early hour, the building was already swarming with workers; it was unbelievable how living under the threat of immediate and painful death had cured the long-standing punctuality issues. The influx of people should have slowed his progress, but the mere sight of him caused the assembled masses to scatter, clearing a path wherever he went. His reputation was good for a lot of things, must of which he didn't particularly care for, but he had to admit, he enjoyed the panicked scattering.

Following his escape from Azkaban, Reuben had anticipated his Lord's order to infiltrate the Ministry, he was, first and foremost, an excellent strategist. The other skills he had developed and honed over the first war had come in use of course, but anyone, given enough time and practise, could learn to wield a knife like an extension of their own arm, the same could not be said of strategy. You could improve, but it required a natural talent, an intuition, to be the best.

Yaxley fundamentally believed that success in  _ any _ plan came down to understanding the people involved, what motivated them, what their weaknesses were, that was where he excelled. His talent had emerged in childhood, though whether innate or cultivated Reuben could no longer be sure. He had been a reticent child, his personality dwarfed at the time by his gregarious younger brother, and many that met the two boys confused their ages, due to their respective manners. Reuben had willingly given his brother the spotlight; it had given him the opportunity to enjoy life on the sidelines and observe. His father, a man of the same disposition, would ask him to sit in on his meetings, no one protested,  _ what harm was there in the child sitting in the corner reading? _ Yaxley learned from those instances how to judge, how to read the subtext of a conversation; who was honest, who was earnest, and all the tells people displayed when they were neither.

Reuben was only ten when Sebastian died. A tragic accident the newspapers had said, Reuben had found no comfort in those words, as the reality of the loss of his little brother tore his family apart. When he sat at the public wake, he forced himself not to feel, instead, he assessed, looking at the made up adults around him, and analysing the level of  _ honest  _ grief in the room under the surface, compared to the horrified grimaces painted onto the lacquered visages. That his parents were devastated was not up for debate, Yaxley would later discover that his mother would never truly recover from the loss, though the level of genuine remorse in the rest of those present was negligible. Even young as he was, he could not rebuke the occupants of the stuffy parlour too much. Sebastian had been the ‘spare’, a backup, his death was assigned the moniker ‘unfortunate’ but not devastating in the minds of those around him. Well, that was the words they used, what they felt was more likely something close to empathy, for the ‘inconvenience’.

Maybe the loss of his brother and best friend had hardened him to life's experience, perhaps being the one to discover the body had set him on his current path,  _ who could tell? _ Becoming an only son had meant no one to hide behind, Reuben had to force himself into society and 'play the game', though he would never have Sebastian’s casual ease he twisted his natural demeanour to his advantage, using his silences and assessing gazes to create an imposing form. Letting hints of his developing sarcasm poke through the surface, making sure people walked away from conversing with him, questioning whether or not they had been insulted. After years of understanding the machinations of the older generation moving amongst his own had almost been too easy, they were all so green. When Reuben arrived Hogwarts a year later and was sorted into Slytherin House, though something of a foregone conclusion, he couldn't help the confident smile that stretched across his face, life among his own kind would be a cakewalk for him.

Yaxley had not been in the castle a full week before he discerned that he was one of the ‘big fish’ amongst his peers. They all wanted to befriend him. He was the pureblood scion of a house  _ firmly _ entrenched within the first circle of the sacred twenty-eight families. Not that many of the assembled green ties were any different in background, but he knew the rules better than they did. They had all been packed off with trunks and a list from their parents of the  _ right _ friends to make, the  _ right  _ hands to shake, and the ones to snub, the ones to avoid, the ones to cultivate. Reuben  _ knew _ he was on those lists, whether to be secured as part of a network, or a potential marriage contract, it didn't matter, he had no interest.

Reuben had been sent off with no such list, having already earnt the respect of his father by the time he was eleven. The man trusted him to make his own decisions, and so Yaxley made some level of connection with everyone in his house, and out of it, where  _ he _ chose. He raised an eyebrow at anyone that questioned him, he had listened to his father, ‘Yaxley’s make the rules’, he was not bound by the strict guidelines the others had, he forged his own path. Unlike his peers Yaxley was aware that years later house affiliations wouldn't matter so much, business was business, and if he found a Ravenclaw that had good connections so be it. That he would be the only Slytherin they would deal in the future, all the better for him.

In his first year, Reuben went home for Yule presenting an eleven-year-old Antonin Dolohov, a pureblood scion from a prominent 'old money' Russian family, and a list of potentially potent intelligence he had gleaned from children discussing the personal lives of their parents in the common room. He had been summoned to his father's study a day later and given his first glass of firewhisky.

Over his years of schooling Antonin became his only  _ true _ friend, Reuben respected few of his associates and liked even fewer, but he loved the stoic Russian, if not in the same way as he had Sebastian, just as deeply. After the passing of all of their parents his relationship with Dolohov, who had always been an only child, became the most important of his life. They relied on each other, and though, to the casual observer, it would seem as if their friendship was of few words, many of those that were uttered being snark, it ran so much deeper than that.

Which was why he was at the Ministry that morning, thudding down corridors, ready to carry out his task like an avenging angel. He hadn't planned on taking action this soon, typically preferring to wait and form a more watertight plan. But seeing how increasingly despondent Antonin had become Reuben hoped news would help lift his spirits.

He may have given Antonin a lot of stick for his  _ obsession _ with the little witch, but he was happy for him, really happy. Antonin had never really shown much interest in settling, much like himself. Though there had been a steady stream of willing witches for both of them, there had never been any that had stuck for any length of time. After graduating Hogwarts they were soon smack bang in the middle of a war, there hadn't been time to start thinking of marriage contracts.

Yaxley had always liked strong women, and in his youth there only seemed to be two types of witch that would have wanted to pursue marriage with someone in his position. The first kind would have stayed at home; quietly and contentedly, kissed his cheek when he got back from missions and washed his blood soaked clothes without comment; the other would have been right alongside him. Neither had been particularly appealing. Reuben had been raised by a tenacious woman, and despite playing the role of brainless society bride when it was required, behind closed doors his mother had been a complete firebrand. Reuben remembered an incident once when he had been about seven or eight, his father had come home pretty worse for wear, from both drink and a fight he had gotten into, leaving him in a sorry state. He had sat, undetected on the stairs; wide-eyed in disbelief as his mother tore verbal strips off his father before actually hexing him. Malleable and submissive she was not. As to the other kind, he had spent far too much time staring into the vaguely dead eyes of Rodolphus Lestrange to consider a wife who would have anywhere near Bella's level of unhinged attachment to their cause, or their leader. Yaxley knew he was a possessive bastard, and everyone could see Bella's heart, and probably most other parts of her anatomy, belonged to their Lord. Reuben didn't share, Dark Lord or no Dark Lord.

Antonin though seemed to have found his match. Reuben had seen some of their interaction at Grimmauld Place and thought that maybe if they all survived this, they might have a chance. She was young, younger than was probably wise, but Reuben realised he had underestimated her when she stood in the same hallway as him. She had honestly believed he had summoned the Dark Lord and yet she hadn't fled. She had been scared, of course, lack of fear would have indicated incredible stupidity, but she had stayed while unconsciously moving to stand in front of her stunned friends. If not ready to face the consequences, at least willing to throw herself in their path. 

Reuben considered that up until that point she had just been a mission of a kind, a task that he had to complete, keeping her safe as Antonin requested. Somehow that day had made her real, and he had the unsettling feeling that it wouldn’t be long before she warranted his protection on her own merit. 

Had it not been such a time sensitive situation, stood in that grimy hallway, Reuben would have found his friend’s behaviour excessively diverting. Antonin did, on occasion, have the tendency to treat a witch like spun glass, especially one he liked. He imagined the Russian had been pushing down his natural inclination to hide the girl somewhere safe since his infatuation began. Hermione didn't seem like the coddling kind, a wry smile crossed his face, this had the potential to be hilarious as their relationship developed.

When they left Azkaban Yaxley had been genuinely worried about his friend; some people were not built for long solitude and introspection, he was amazed Rabastan had survived it. Antonin and himself, as strong silent types, were slightly more prepared than most, and he had not expected to see the level of defeat he had in Antonin when they had first got out. Dolohov’s performance in public was enough to fool the others, Antonin had never been an exuberant soul at any point in his life, to the rest it just looked as if the same reticent man that had come out again, albeit shabbier around the edges, but Reuben knew better. 

Then, Antonin had seen Hermione's picture. His friend had tried to hide it and down played it as much as possible, but Reuben watched on in amazement as Antonin almost seemed to come back to himself. Dolohov would never admit it, but he changed that day. He began dragging himself through the post-Azkaban ‘rehabilitation’ with vigour; he was like the old Antonin, the one with a purpose, that purpose had been their cause, now it was survival. Yaxley honestly believed that if Dolohov hadn't had her as a focus, he might not have endured the second trip to the North Sea. Even if Reuben had hated Hermione when they had eventually met, he would have always been grateful to her, for the part she played in saving his friend, whether she did it unconsciously or not.

He should have been ready with wise council, and possibly more censure, for his picking of such a  _ problematic _ girl, but Reuben’s heart wasn't in it, Antonin wasn't the only one with doubts. Many, many discussions had been had late into the night, over the diminishing sanity of their Lord. His master kept Bella with him at all times now, her devotion the leash the Dark Lord used to keep the rabid dog she had become in place. Reuben would have been offended at the show of preference if the other two sidekicks weren't Lucius and Snape. The total of his Lord's _ best and brightest  _ consisted of two sycophants, one mad, one incompetent, and a possible traitor.

They had met with the potential defector earlier that week; Snape was still keeping his cards close to his chest. Though the headmaster had delivered the package Hermione had supposedly requested, despite obvious reluctance in her choice of ‘transit’. Snape had charmed the package so only Hermione could open it,  _ the wily fucker _ . It was a smart move because Reuben knew  _ he _ , at least, would have wanted to find out more. Antonin may have been willing to act on her word alone but he was not, it was nothing personal, this was about endurance. When they met again she would be explaining herself, though Reuben couldn't help feel a tiny smidgen of begrudging pride that she had held her ground at the last meeting. Even with both of them looming over her she had kept her chin up and her mouth firmly closed.

Antonin had not been impressed with the headmaster’s actions, dealings between two parties where neither would expand upon their true loyalties were never going to run smoothly. If there was anything in that package that would hurt a curl on the little witch's head Reuben wouldn't hold Antonin back when he eviscerated the Potions Master, in fact, he had been cultivating a cover just in case; if came to that in the coming weeks. 

Though he prodded Antonin for ‘going soft’ he hadn't changed, not really. He might have been more careful around her, trying as he was to head her wishes and earn her trust, but he wasn't likely to go sloping off to the Order, throwing himself at their feet and asking for redemption. No, the Russian was more minded to find some middle ground where they could all exist.

Despite a now shaky belief in the cause, and knowingly assisting one of the biggest targets aside at his core Reuben was unchanged. Years of undertaking vicious acts were not washed away because your viewpoint shifted. With or without the Dark Lord he would have always craved power, in all its forms, and power over those that had crossed him was the sweetest joy of all.

Which was why his task for the day filled him with an almost restless glee. Umbridge had been a pain in his arse since he'd started working at the Ministry. Trying to weasel her way into the top positions, sucking up and playing lip service until she had eventually been given the Muggle Born Registration Committee to shut her up. All of that had made her nothing more than a significant irritation. But then she had done something truly foolish, she had made an enemy of Hermione, and whether Antonin had asked him to or not, Reuben would have taken her out sooner rather than later. Antonin's decision had made that little witch family, and a threat to his family was not to be tolerated.

A final right turn and Yaxley arrived outside her office. It was deliberately ostentatious to do it during the day, let alone at nine o'clock in the morning, but that's what came of exploiting perceptions. People, he found, had preconceived ideas about when and where things should happen; dark deeds occurred at night-time in quiet, dingy locations. Reuben was certain no one in the bank of offices on either side would even think for a second that someone was being tortured down the corridor while they tucked into their morning coffee and pastries.

It saddened him greatly that he would have to muffle the room, an audience always heightened the sense of achievement, however, strong silencing spells would mean he wouldn't have to gag her, and that would make it worthwhile.

Deciding not to linger Reuben grasped the handle of her office door and let himself in without announcement or waiting for permission. He suppressed his urge to shudder at the repulsiveness of the interior, there was  _ way _ too much pink, on the walls, and on all of the layers of frills, he would never have considered that colour could be so…  _ oppressive _ .

The woman he sought was sat behind her stupidly grandiose desk, idly viewing paperwork while eating a croissant, her eyebrows furrowed in irritation at the intrusion before she looked up and saw who it was. "Oh," her face broke into a broad smile. "Hello Reuben, what can I do for you today?"

He tried to ignore her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Her affected, baby-like voice and condescending manner would typically rile him, but today his face split into a warm smile, he internally chuckled as he suspected she thought he was merely returning her welcome. Yaxley abruptly turned to close the door, throwing up thick layers of silencing spells once the office was sealed. He was confident that no one would care she was dead, but he didn't like to be interrupted while he was working.

"What is going on?" she asked officiously, steepling her fingers in front of her on the desk and squaring her shoulders into a position she probably thought made her look important.

Reuben smiled wider, she had made a fair attempt at sounding authoritative, but there was a small, shrill quality creeping in at the edges of her voice, betraying her uncertainty. He turned back around to face her and crossed his arms over his chest. He still hadn't uttered a word since entering the office; it was a tactic he employed often, weaker minds became uncomfortable quickly. Her face darted from him to the door several times before she practically jumped from her seat.

"Is it something for the Dark Lord? In that case, of course, I understand the need for complete secrecy. Is there something, in particular, he needs from me?" she asked with a fluttering laugh.

Yaxley fought down the bile in his throat at the very idea of anyone needing her in the breathy way he had suggested. He tilted his head to the side making it plain he was regarding her, assessing her. "Stand on your desk," he murmured.

She stilled. "I… I beg your pardon?" she stuttered indignantly.

"Stand. On. Your. Desk," Reuben repeated, elements of his colder, harsher, Death Eater persona coming through in his tone.

She watched him quietly and returned his stare, unblinking. He wasn't known for playing with his food; he wasn't a sadist, it wasn’t the inflicting of pain he enjoyed, so much as the influence it gave him. But that didn't mean he was going to be in any way hurried. She was very much a  _ special case _ .

One of the skills Reuben had developed in his years of service to the Dark Lord was torture for the purpose of information gathering. Specifically, where you pushed someone to the limits of their barriers and tolerances until they go half mad, at that point, when the mind gives out and they literally cannot stand any more pain, they will tell you anything ask, will do whatever you desire. Anyone could kill, but not everyone had the control, or the flair, to break someone in a useful way. 

Reuben was determined to see the woman's true colours before she met her end. He had seen it in her, the darkness within, he saw it in the mirror enough, he knew what he was looking for. It was present in the briefest flash of her eyes or the tightening grip of her hand, all while she was maintaining her incredibly false air of almost schoolgirl-like, earnest goodness. Reuben imagined she believed herself to be giving a very close impression of a sophisticated, coiffured, pureblood lady.

She stood shakily from under her desk, "I don't understand."

He almost laughed at her response, though she questioned him she was already on her way to complying. Reuben didn't speak; he merely tilted his head towards the desk, his gesture plain. She looked at the floor and exhaled roughly. While she may have been a bitch she wasn't a total idiot, he was well aware of what she was capable of, but if Umbridge knew even half of who he was, she would know compliance was the  _ only _ option.

She put her chubby, sweaty, little palms flat on the desk and falteringly moved one leg, putting the knee up onto the veneered dark wood surface. While she was distracted Reuben wordlessly disarmed her and she flinched as her wand flew from its holster on her wrist into his outstretched hand. He closed his eyes momentarily as he felt the room fill, with the waves of fear rolling off her. She raised her head to face him.

"Up," he said firmly, and the word resonated around the quiet of the room.

Her body was shaking with abandon now, though she still moved to acquiesce. With little grace she was finally standing up on the desk, then with a series of mechanical movements, she straightened herself out. Yaxley could see how she desperately tried to remain still, but her hands continued to move restlessly. He watched as she tugged on her skirt repeatedly, attempting to pull it past her knees, his brows lifted in response, she was in no danger of any attention there. He was a bastard, but he was no rapist, he valued women too highly for that, he would never force one. In fact, he planned to get through this without touching her _ at all _ if possible.

With a lazy wave of his hand, thick ropes appeared at her ankles, and with a twist of his fingers, they coiled around their intended target, growing tighter and tighter.

"What… I… what is the meaning-" she spluttered.

Reuben ignored her, too focused on his task. With another minute wave of his palm a long rope, thicker than the others, appeared, suspended securely from the ceiling. That particular spell he had learnt from an older boy in his house while still at Hogwarts, and he had employed its use  _ many _ times, for much more  _ agreeable _ reasons, with very  _ willing  _ partners.

Reuben drew his wand, and in a flash, the rope from the ceiling had attached itself to the bindings at the bottom of her short legs before it hoisted her upside down. Umbridge was screaming at him now, but he tuned the words out, it was time to being.

"I apologise Dolores for keeping you in suspense,” he started silkily, “I will answer all of your questions now, but you will understand my prerogative. My mother taught me that there was an _ art  _ to dispatching delicate communication, and how success could be influenced by the setting. Now that I have been able to create the perfect ambience… I will begin."

Her face had turned nearly purple with rage during his short speech, or maybe it was because she was upside down, either way, Reuben swallowed the bubble of laughter that was travelling up his throat. 

"Yaxley… I  _ command _ that you let me down this  _ instant _ … why… when the Minister hears of this… I am a respected… possibly the most resp..."

"Dolores, Dolores, Dolores… you are smarter than this,” he said lazily. “You do not seem to comprehend you are a Ministry employee, and even if you were respected, though I doubt it, I simply don't care about your threats."

Reuben moved languidly towards her, taking his time, enjoying the widening of her eyes and the stuttering pace of her breath. He aimed a cutting hex across the back of her hand and she screamed in pain, the sound plainly disproportionate to the discomfort she had experienced. He repeated the process again and again, until the back of her hand looked like a rudimentary chessboard. The cuts were only shallow, deep enough to draw blood, but not something more serious than a child would have obtained during rough play. When he took a pause her screams ended abruptly, she was breathing heavily now, Umbridge dragged her injured hand towards her face, and Reuben observed as her eyes widened before he could detect the precise moment she comprehended there was more to this than she had first suspected.

"Why?" she asked finally

"I'm so glad you asked, you see there is someone that has entered my sphere of protection, via someone I care about very much, and you hurt them, Dolores. Hurt them in a way that still marks their skin. You will understand as a former Slytherin yourself that we take care of our own, the age of the debt doesn't matter, acts made against us must be settled, and my friend was very,  _ very _ upset to see something scarring her. Maybe we could have found a way to work this all out, but you don't see to be inclined to let this go. Whatever it is about the witch, she has got under your skin, and I'm afraid the only solution for that, is for me to get under yours."

Umbridge struggling stilled "Granger?" she spat the world clearly disgusted, "all this... for the Mudblood?"

Reuben aimed the next cutting hex at her wrist in condemnation, and she gasped as the incision sliced, Reuben observed the blood pour over her hand, the flow accelerated by her positioning.

"Do you know what exsanguination is Dolores?” he asked icily, moving around her to sit in her abandoned chair, kicking his legs up on the desk she was suspended above, before aiming a quick Repelling Charm at his boots. The elves would kill him if he dragged body fluids through the manor again. 

“It is the process of blood loss to a degree sufficient to cause death. Of course, there are a lot of misconceptions,” he continued conversationally, “mainly due to stupid ideas about Vampires. People seem to believe that you need to drain someone completely, but, depending on the age, health, and fitness level of the individual, people can die from losing half or, in some cases, even two-thirds of their blood.” Reuben delighted in how pale she had suddenly gone.

“Why did I choose this method? I'm so glad you asked, you know in the Muggle world they sometimes use this for animals... it felt…  _ appropriate. _ "

"All of this for her? She's the  _ animal, _ ” she seethed, “I cannot believe you would  _ sully  _ yourself and the ideals of your Lord for a quick fu-"

Reuben aimed a hex at her face, the force being similar to that of a hard back handed slap, though he was unlikely to lose his temper with her, it would have been unwise to let her finish that sentence,  _ just in case _ . 

"I wouldn't if I were you, Dolores, I already have this mapped out, I wouldn't want to have to change my plans to make it  _ worse _ for you."

"She. Is. A. Mudblood. Whore," she protested definitively.

Reuben watched her unblinking before aiming the cutting hex again, this time at the other wrist and pushed the chair back to drink in her increasing panic, and tsked her. "The witch you are vilifying is the future wife of an ancient and respected family, you are lucky it is me here with you today, I may be motivated to keep you slightly longer now, but Antonin would have fitted a tap to your throat and bled you for days."

"Antonin… as in Antonin Dolohov?" Umbridge laughed. "You'll all die for this, do you understand? You have sacrificed your lives for that worthless bitch."

"Possibly,” Reuben agreed with a shrug, “but you'll be dead first," and with that, he moved his wand and the next cutting hex found its mark against her throat. Not close enough to end her quickly but the resulting blood coupled with what she had already lost finished her off within minutes. She flailed madly, rage leaving her quickly as she fell into fear, clutching at her throat desperately while he sat listening to her screams reverberate off the office walls.

When it was done he checked his watch, 10.27 perfecting timing, three minutes until the next arrival.

It hadn't taken much to convince his Lord that Umbridge was a spy, in fact, it had taken worryingly little effort, especially considering she was probably the least likely spy in existence. Anyone could have seen that she was _ very  _ much behind the cause, but Yaxley had exploited another of her character traits, she was as obvious in her quest for power as she was in her championing of blood purity. All it had taken was a word in Bella's ear and then the right word in Lucius'.

Malfoy was so desperate to curry favour that he would do  _ anything _ if he thought it would get him back in his Lord’s good graces. Including letting his son take the mark, and he had been willing to send Draco along behind him to collect Umbridge, or well, what was left of her. After letting 'slip' that Bella was looking to act, Lucius had been  _ determined _ to get in there first. Reuben hadn't specified she would be dead but that was the point, he never had any intention of letting Malfoy Jr take this over, he had a much more specific goal in mind.

Right on time, there was a knock at the door; Reuben answered with a shout and a head of distinctive blond walked into the office. 

Draco’s face was fixed on Yaxley, "You wanted to see me?" he asked with an air of indifference, not quite honed enough to fool Reuben. He could tell that behind that swagger was a good deal of fear. He moved ever so slightly to the right, exposing his morning's handwork to the young recruit. He fought down the smirk at Malfoy's soft gasp and attempts to keep himself upright. Reuben waved his hand, and the ropes disappeared, Umbridge’s body falling to the floor with a loud, wet thud.

"Take her body back to the Manor, I have an appointment with the Dark Lord," he commanded.

Draco made no response; his wide eyes were fixed on the form that had fallen, splayed into a pool of her now cold blood. "I didn't expect her to be dead," he uttered finally.

"Well she is, and if it's any consolation I think it was a surprise to her as well," he replied dryly before moving to the office door, hand on the handle he turned. "Draco she was a spy, and I was sent to interrogate her, but she had also made several mistakes that had led to her being on my bad side. I would like you to think about what may happen if you upset me… I'm very much watching you."

Draco may not have understood what particular infraction he had been referring to, but the threat was enough to ensure he paled. Once he was convinced his meaning was understood Reuben left the room, moving out into the still bustling corridor. After a visit to his Lord to show him the memories he has constructed he would go to see Antonin, the Russian had been growing more unhinged with every passing day without news of Hermione. Hopefully, this would provide him with some respite, one more week and they could see her. Reuben hoped they would be able to convince her to come with them, and if not, at least get some answers.


	16. Chapter 16

Remembering you standing quiet in the rain   
As I ran to your heart to be near   
And we kissed as the sky fell in   
Holding you close   
How I always held close in your fear

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Hermione was sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the decrepit tent. She had reached that point of deep concentration wherein everything, including her surroundings, had fallen away, which was a relief, as the very sight of the burnt orange tarpaulin walls were beginning to give her anxiety. Whenever the fabric fluttered in the breeze, Hermione felt like it was moving to close in on her. Panic attacks were regular now.

But today she had laser focus and was surrounded by the  _ extensive _ Horcrux notes they had made since the beginning of summer. Directly in front of her rested a parchment with a list of the six objects they believed to be housing parts of Voldemort's soul, some of them, thankfully, crossed through. That should have been it, destroy the objects, kill the Dark Lord and everyone goes home for ice cream. It should have been, but it wasn't. Something wouldn't gel. Every time Hermione would try to fixate on  _ how _ to obtain the remaining Horcruxes an itching would start at the corner of her senses. At first, she had thought it was just her mind wandering, sick of the repetition, but the longer it continued gnawing at her, the greater her concern.

Hermione picked up the parchment, resting it on her legs. After constant chats with Harry where they rehashed all of his meetings with Dumbledore, and raked over Tom Riddle's life story, they were as certain as they could be that the items listed were correct.

_ Diary, Ring, Locket _ ; gone,  _ Diadem, Cup, Snake; _ remaining.

Professor Snape had come through; Harry had yet to make any peace with that, Hermione supposed there were bigger things to worry about for now. After all, she hadn't  _ known _ that he would help, she had merely hoped. Receiving the Sword had unfortunately been overshadowed by the rage that consumed her following Ron's return. When the red mist dissipated, she wanted to be able to thank the Potions Master, who was somehow still on their side, or at least was making sure he would get out of this alive, and as free as it would be possible to be. Hermione had gotten to a point where she wasn't sure she cared which it was anymore. Her strict morals and principles had guided her all of her young adult life, often putting her at odds with those closest to her. Right now, in this tent, malnourished and fading, she just wanted it to be over.

At least the Locket was gone.

Antonin needed to come through with the Diadem now. Despite Professor Snape's actions, Harry was still very cynical about the chances of that happening. Hermione couldn't blame him, if she were looking at her situation from another's eyes she would probably scoff as well. Trusting Antonin, a Death Eater, that was without remorse was objectively stupid, though that didn't stop her. Her mother had taught her it was pointless to fight against the way you feel about something, even if you knew it wasn't rational, Hermione had no intention of doing that.  _ What did it matter if she was going to die anyway? _

Her eyes fell back to the worn pieces of parchment and scattered ratty tomes in front of her. The objects that had been bequeathed by Dumbledore didn't fit; it was like an otherwise completed puzzle with one piece sticking out awkwardly. The more she looked, the more she considered that the piece might belong to an entirely different jigsaw. Hermione let her mind go clear as she pondered over all of the facts. The Deluminator had worked, revealing its real purpose to Ron when he had needed it. Dumbledore must have known, not only that Ron would leave, but also that he would want to come back. Ron had apparently made that connection, though he did not seem to reflect on the news for long. Hermione would have taken it a lot harder, having always struggled with criticism, especially from adults. When Sirius Black had told her she ‘had a lot to learn in their fifth year’; it had taken a week for the sting those words brought to abate.

People that thought they had the measure of her would probably guess Hermione valued her intelligence above all things, but that wasn't entirely accurate. Of course, her mind was something she prized, it wasn't a gift, it was something she had worked for. Nevertheless, her loyalty was the character trait she put above everything, and was what she rated highest in others. Hermione had never had many friends, those she did have she treasured, and would do anything for. If she had discovered Dumbledore had foreseen her leaving when the situation got difficult she would have found it very painful to swallow. It was one thing to have a failing; it was another to have someone else read it so clearly they had made a provision for it. 

At least since his return Ron was back to being the best version of himself, he had stopped complaining, mostly, and had taken over the lion share of the work while Harry and Hermione studied. He even interjected his ideas while they were discussing their options. Which, despite her initial scepticism, actually helped, the benefit of fresh eyes was not to be overlooked.

Hermione’s own eyes were a long way from gleaming, she and Harry were severely depleted. She didn't have a mirror, but as she could detect the hollowness of Harry's face, she was sure it was reflected in hers. Maybe even more so. Hermione had noticed the boys eying her critically in their impression of stealth movements while she was dressing, the looks were not unkind, more concerned, she didn't want to give them additional things to worry about, but she could not hide the weight she had lost anymore. Hermione cared even less about her appearance than usual, however, when clumps of her too tangled hair started to fall away as she ran her fingers through the ends she wondered how long it would be before they starved.

Ron being back also meant limited time alone with Harry. They had unanimously agreed not to let Ron in on the plan with Antonin and Yaxley, ‘for now’ Harry had said,  _ in case they don't come _ was what he had meant. Harry had explained they would confess all later, in the very slim possibility that the Death Eaters would deliver. Hermione, trying to her best to be uncharacteristically positive, hoped the Diadem would soften the blow to Ron.

She moved again, trying to get more comfortable and rearranged her setting; laying the book, the Snitch and the Deluminator in front of her. Harry had said she looked mad like this, but visualisation helped. Her eyes continually came back to rest on the Snitch; it made her uneasy. Not like the sticky, corroding unease she’d felt with the Horcrux near her, with the locket she had felt the Dark Magic polluting the air around her, this was a different kind of magic. At times Hermione could almost believe it was taunting her.

Images of its shiny surface and fluttering wings were permeating her dreams, the engraved line ‘I open at the close’ tormenting her. In her dream state, it would call at her to look closer, and Hermione would feel the answer within her grasp before suddenly, everything would feel so much darker, the abstract dream giving way to a nightmare. She could never bear to stay there, and would run in retreat until she would wake in a cold sweat.

That left the book. Hermione had fully translated it now, and as far as she could tell the runes didn't reveal anything additional to the standard version. No prophecies or Dark Lord Destruction manuals hidden amongst its many pages, they were fairy stories and nothing more. Hermione picked the text up again; she had suspected for a while that there might have been some charm on the book, or a message contained within. Years of watching Star Wars with her dad had led her to fantasise about a message from Dumbledore popping up from a correctly translated page, 'Save us, Harry, you're our only hope'. Hermione had long since dismissed that idea as a delusion, not because it was ridiculous, frankly, everything they had done for the last seven years was absurd, this wasn't likely as that would have been  _ too bloody helpful _ .

Harry could say what he liked about Professor Snape, Hermione had asked for a way to get rid of a difficult object, and he had delivered. She couldn't have risked saying anything more revealing, she had been testing his  _ knowledge _ as much as his will to help, and he had sent the Sword straight away. Professor Snape didn't send a riddle or an obscure text, he just sent the bloody thing that would help. Hermione felt she had made her choices of authority figures to follow better than Harry, they could argue about _ light and dark _ until the end of time, but it didn't change the facts. If the last year had taught her anything, it was that there was a great deal of grey in the world around them. People of the so-called light often had a lot more questionable intent than the other side.

Hermione gently pushed at her mind to clear again,  _ focus on the small things Hermione, you cannot solve everything, break the problem down. That was it, one issue at a time. _

She picked up a sheet of parchment and wrote down all of the unanswered questions she had about Harry's Snitch and the book. Once the sheet had dried, Hermione laid it on top of the list of Horcruxes. Her eyes zeroing in on one of the questions immediately.

_ What is the significance of the rune on the front of the book? _

With a jolt Hermione remembered where she had seen that rune before,  _ how could she not have remembered? _ It had been at Bill and Fleur's wedding. Viktor had been so angry, explaining that it was the emblem Grindelwald's had used, it hadn't made any sense,  _ why would it have been on his necklace? _

She jumped up and started packing some things away, deliberating over what they might need planning to leave that to top. By the time the boys made it back, Hermione was almost ready to go and stood in front of them immediately.

"Hold up Hermione, where's the fire?" Ron said confused, looking at Harry who shrugged.

"No time now, come on,” she panted, “we have to see Xeno Lovegood."

* * *

With the boys back the trio packed up the tent in record time, they wouldn't be coming back to the same location, having already stayed there for four days. If was longer than Hermione would typically like, but she had been too tired lately to push to keep moving. The days that they moved she didn't have the energy to concentrate, and that was more necessary than ever. Now though Hermione felt fully alert, thanks to the surge of adrenaline from having a new lead, well, more of a prompt, but it was better than nothing. As the boys ran around following her instructions in double time, shocked by her sudden vitality, Hermione drifted off into thought; she wondered if Luna would be there. She had no idea how things had been at Hogwarts, though she could imagine it had not been pleasant for her friend.

Before they apparated, Hermione pondered whether she could prevail upon them for a hot shower and some food, but those thoughts disappeared as the Rook shaped house came into view.

Xeno Lovegood was sat on the front porch, his back immediately stiffened as they appeared. He stood, ostensibly to greet them, and Hermione’s enthusiastic greeting died on her tongue as she looked closer. He looked different, more…  _ hollow _ . His long blond hair was lank, making it appear darker than its usual shade, and his clothes were muted and worn.

"Hello Xeno," she called to him with false cheer, as they walked through the gate and up to the house. "Sorry for dropping in unannounced like this, but we wondered if we might have a moment of your time?"

As soon as Hermione had seen him properly she wanted to apparate away; it was the same feeling she had gotten in Godric's Hollow at Christmas, a nudging in her brain that was screaming at her to leave and not look back. But she couldn't. They needed to ask about the rune, and now they were here she needed to know about Luna.

He smiled at her, the false, forced expression looking so strained on his face it made dread pool in Hermione’s stomach, Xeno waved his hand at the door and invited them in, using a voice as brittle as the one Hermione had employed earlier. She directed the boys to sit in the circle of mismatched armchairs, where she had sat before laughing. There was no laughter here now. There was only one reason Hermione could think of that would reduce Xeno to this state, she pushed back the bile that was rising in her throat and followed him into the kitchen.

Xeno was stood with his back to her, and Hermione watched his hands shake as he poured tea. 

"Where is Luna?”

She didn't bother to sound conversational, he knew she had seen through him. His body stilled for just a moment before he continued pouring, ignoring her. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. "Please," she implored.

He turned around to face her, holding the tray, with some unknown emotion flashing in his eyes. "Come on Hermione, let's have some tea," he said soothingly, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Hermione followed him out of the ramshackle kitchen and took a seat beside Harry, as she collected herself Ron asked where Luna was idly, with nothing of the concern or understanding of the situation that Hermione had asked with seconds before. 

"She's out in the fields; I suspect she will be along later," Xeno said, pointing out of the window behind them. 

_ Liar. _

Hermione’s back was straight; she didn't rest into the chair, she eyed the cups critically, picking one up and holding it in her fingers but not drinking any of its contents. She saw from the corner of her eye when Harry had noticed her posture. She turned to face him, Xeno was still lying his arse off in conversation with Ron, 'stay alert' she mouthed at him and dropped her nose pointedly at the tea. Harry immediately went into defence mode, he casually placed his cup on the table, and the lines of his shoulders became more pronounced, Hermione was fairly sure he was gripping his wand in his sleeve.  _ Good _ , now to get this done quick.

She passed Xeno the book, "What can you tell us about the rune on the cover?"

His eyes regarded the bequeathed tome, but he gave no indication that the book itself was of particular importance. Instead, he told them the story of the Three Brothers, much of which she had gotten from Ron, but the idea that the objects  _ had _ existed that was… she wanted to say preposterous,  _ but was it? _ There was no time for this now, Hermione filed away thoughts of the Hallows and took her book back.

When she looked back up Xeno was glancing around the room; his eyes had repeatedly wandered while he had recounted the tale. His gaze fell on two spots time and time again, the first was her, but there was another location, Harry had picked up on it to if the way his eyes darted were any indication. When Xeno's eyes moved again, Hermione followed his gaze and felt her heart sink to her shoes when she saw the clock on the wall behind them.

"Xeno what did you do?" Her voice was neutral, she needed to know as much as possible if they were going to get out of this alive.

His face crumpled, "I am so sorry Hermione,” he said in an agonised whisper, “I had to tell them… they… they took her. They took my little Luna… I thought if I gave them… they would bring her back."

"It's ok Xeno," Hermione said as she locked eyes with him, no hint of censure in her voice. "We are going to get her back."

Xeno’s eyes filled with tears, "Hermione I never… I'm sorry."

She nodded, it wasn't ok, of course it wasn't, but as she had told herself only hours earlier, the normal rules didn't apply anymore. If she thought for one second that Voldemort would order Luna's release if she were captured she would have turned herself in. Only a man who had lost everything, who was beyond desperate, would believe such a blatant lie.

"Hermione we need to get out of here now," Harry's yell broke her from her locked gaze with her friend's father.

She couldn't let him suffer any more than he was already. "Not yet Harry," she said firmly.

"What do you mean?" He called exasperated, "They're coming."

"I know… but, they need to see us. Need to know we were here," she said, willing him to understand.

Harry looked from her to Xeno and screwed up his face closing his eyes, when he opened them again he appeared resolved, "Okay, we do it your way," he bit out. Hermione knew he was reluctant, but she had banked on his compulsion to save everyone to force his hand.

They stood, and she put her hand on Xeno's arm, "I promise she will be back," she said with as much confidence as she could muster, in the face of what was ahead of them. Hermione knew she shouldn't make assurances, but she couldn't consider a world in which she couldn't  _ make _ that true.

Water was spilling from his eyes and over his cheeks now, and he pulled her to him, in a much too hard hug and kissed the top of her head. "Survive Hermione, survive," Xeno murmured, and she nodded, before extracting herself quickly. He couldn't have known how it felt just then to be held by a parental figure, and Hermione couldn't process the emotions coursing through her before a fight, if she was to do as he asked, so she turned her back.

Then all hell broke loose. 

The air was filled with scores of loud noises, and swooshing clouds of black signified the arrival of the Death Eaters. The crashes from upstairs telling them they had already begun attacking the house.

"So what's the plan?" Harry asked.

"Through the front door run as fast as we can?" Hermione offered.

"That doesn't sound like much of a plan."

"Why break with tradition?" she countered with no real humour in her voice.

Without any more time to debate they ran straight out of the door, linking hands to drag each other along. As soon as they could hear calls from the figures clad in black, indicating that were in pursuit, Hermione disapparated them.

* * *

Antonin apparated to the forest that Hermione had referenced in an agitated state. He had already known where to go. When he heard about the attack on the Lovegood home he had come to the place she had described. Antonin told himself it was to check he knew where the waterfall she had specified was, though he could have just looked at a map. Really, he wanted to see if they were already in the area. They weren't, or if they were, they were well hidden. He had taken some comfort from that.

While they didn't seem to be that adept at combat the trio certainly excelled at fleeing and hiding; they had been on the run for months, Antonin knew the other Death Eaters were surprised they had lasted this long, having gotten to know her he wasn’t.

Antonin’s hands twitched idly, and he moaned from the provocation. He had been restless all day, eventually giving himself up as a fool and leaving early. To say he was  _ eager _ to see her was an understatement.

She was not safe; the thought kept repeating in his head. With every piece of news he heard, with every foiled plot set in their path,  _ she was not safe _ . But she wouldn't let him protect her, he would ask again for her to come with them, but he already knew she would refuse. Antonin disliked the feeling of being out of control, not enough to reassess his desire for her, it was decidedly too late for that, though it did make him unsure of his next move.

Like most men of his generation his model for a 'happy relationship' or 'domestic bliss', as some might say, had come from his parents. Alexei and Ekaterina Dolohov had been very much in love. His father from the very day he had first seen her, his mother not until some time later, as she was fond of reminding him over the years. His father had worshipped the ground his mother walked on, and while Alexei was not effusive in his declarations, his actions spoke for themselves. When his mother was sick, anything from a cold to a serious illness, his father would shadow her around the house, annoying her, until she would capitulate to his demands to convalesce. At which point Alexei would often carry her reluctant form up the stairs, and in one notable instance locked her in her room, though that was never repeated.

Like most pureblood families the Dolohov's had a private and public persona. In public his mother was polite and formal, in the manner that was expected of her, though no societal pressure ever took away the warmth from her face, or the softening of his father's eyes when they were in the same room.

Antonin, like his father, had been labelled stoic wherever he went, and that was faithful to an extent, but conversely, he was also a very emotional, passionate wizard. He noticed a similar thing in all of his fellow Death Eaters; it came from being educated while living out of the snake pit. They trusted few, and they cared for fewer, and those they loved were off limits. That code of honour may not have transferred precisely from the Slytherin common room to his Lord's table, but everyone knew what the expectations were.

Reuben had liked to poke at Antonin’s propensity for jealousy when they were younger, and Antonin believed it stemmed from his being an only child. He didn't like people  _ touching _ things that were his; not the shiny blue train set he had received at five, when his parents were trying to placate him, after announcing their looming move to England, and not witches as he had gotten older. Antonin was sure Hermione would not react well to his likening her to a train set, or something that was 'his', but her potential ire wouldn't make him any more in control of his actions.

He settled himself into the tree line, allowing his form to be covered almost entirely by shade. It would be a good vantage point to observe. A low pop sounded a second or so later, alerting him to Yaxley's arrival. Antonin shared a quick nod with his friend before Reuben stalked off to check their surroundings. The last thing they needed was unwanted company.

A rustling sound started in the bushes a few feet away and Antonin turned quickly. Hermione was walking wearily towards the clearing, her head moving side to side, his eyes widened as he saw Potter beside her, before they narrowed again when he registered the tight grip the boy had on her forearm as they navigated the uneven ground. 

_ She must have told him. _

Antonin released a breath he hadn't known he was holding.  _ How much had she told her friends? _ Anything was more than he could have ever hoped for. He had found himself worried about the outcome of all of this, nights when he was in his room, drinking himself into an even earlier grave than he might already be fated too. Even if everything went to plan, he had no guarantee from her, no sign yet that she would return his feelings, not that he had confirmed to her, or even to himself what they were. Antonin knew he wouldn't leave her alone either way, if his father had passed on one lesson about his marriage to his mother it was that when you found the right witch, you  _ kept _ trying, until she was in your house, in your bed, bore your children, and shared your life.

As the tiny figures got closer, Antonin took her in, after all this time apart he had spent  _ a lot  _ of time with his  _ fantasy Hermione _ , an amount of time that a man his age, should be fairly ashamed of. He imagined this had not helped his reaction to her appearance, she looked terrible. Not that she wasn't beautiful, that was an unchanging fact, but he could see that the last month had been hard on her. Antonin looked over at Potter, he wasn't looking too great either, but Hermione looked worse. He wondered if Potter knew, or had even noticed, that she must have been skipping meals, no doubt to give him and Weasley her share. Antonin bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from raging at her. The first time they met had been under spellfire, and the last he had yelled, he had promised himself,  _ repeatedly _ , that he would control his temper this time. 

Hermione wasn't making it easy, she looked so thin. The jumper she was wearing was thick, but even the excess wool wasn’t doing much to hide her diminished form, her little face was hollow and her eyes rimmed with dark circles.

Before they had made it to a stop, he addressed her, in the most neutral tone he could manage. "You are fine?" His voice came out gruffer and more accented that he would have liked, but it was the best he could do given the circumstances.

She looked at him, as if noticing his presence for the first time. "Yes, I am... fine," she answered softly.

Before he could say anything else Yaxley appeared back in the clearing and nodded at him once, confirming they were alone. Antonin watched as Reuben took in their company, pausing over Potter briefly before concentrating on Hermione. Reuben moved to stand level with him, shoulder width apart and smiled at her.

"Hello again, little duck," he said brightly with a wink before turning his head to smirk at Potter. Hermione looked slightly startled by the warm expression on Reuben's face, coupled with the very familiar opening, but didn't call him on it, and merely said hello back.

Antonin fought down a laugh, they both liked to make sure  _ they _ were in control, Reuben often achieved this by prodding the reactions he wanted out of people. Potter’s presence wasn't something they banked on, and they would both want to make sure he knew where his standing was in this grouping i.e. none. As Yaxley moved closer, Antonin saw his friend’s smile falter as he subtly looked Hermione up and down, his brows furrowed into a frown for a second before he shook it off. 

They remained standing equidistant from each other for long moments, the only sound the breeze in the trees. Potter tried to look unreadable but his discomfort and simmering rage were evident in the tight lines of his face, he obviously was not happy to see them. Antonin understood the feeling, in his fantasies of reuniting with Hermione, varied and fantastical as they were, none of them had involved the Chosen One holding her in a vice-like grip.

"What happened at the Lovegood house?" Antonin blurted, unable to help himself.

Hermione sighed. "Well, a lot went wrong," she admitted looking at him apologetically. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling ten years older,  _ you don't fucking say Hermione _ , he would leave that subject for now. It was probably time for a refresher on the importance of planning with his witch, but not with an audience. He dug into his pocket and handed over the parchment wrapped package from Snape, reluctantly, not only had the headmaster charmed it for only her to be able to open, but he had also refused to tell them what it was. They had tried every revealing spell they could think of, and a few they made up, and still detected nothing. Antonin couldn't shake the feeling that  _ something _ wasn't quite right with the contents. 

He was experienced with all kinds of magic, and Antonin sensed an unknown darkness oozing from the small parcel all week, it had felt at times like it had been calling him, whispering that he should find a way of opening it. 

"Be careful, we don't know what's inside, and it could be dangerous," he warned her.

Hermione nodded in apparent understanding, though when her fingers reaching for the parchment caused both Death Eaters to instinctively raise their wands in anticipation, she paused, looking up at the hard lines of their faces with confusion. "Professor Snape completed the task I asked of him,” she explained in a neutral tone. “He found a way to prove that he was reliable, I don't think I have anything to fear from this."

_ Well, that was bloody ambiguous _ , Antonin could feel Reuben getting irritated by the side of him. They couldn't leave without more answers.

Hermione opened the parchment and gasped softly before angling it towards Harry, and his eyes widened before nodding. Hermione wrapped it back up carefully before putting it in her bag. "Thank you," her eyes locked with his. "Thank you," she repeated, even more softly this time, more mouthing the words than speaking them.

“And you,” she said, turning to Yaxley, who nodded once before her eyes fell on him again. They shone, and for a moment his breath hitched as he waited for whatever she was planning to say until, clocking her soft expression, Potter’s own turned stormy, glaring at the both of them.

"Easy there Potter wouldn't want to strain your eyes; you've already got enough issues in that area," Reuben heckled. Despite everything Antonin was pretty sure Yaxley was enjoying himself, he had been positively jubilant since he had killed Umbridge, Antonin had returned that evening and been treated to watching the whole event in the study pensive. He would have to tell Hermione eventually, though not today.

He walked a couple of steps towards Hermione, ignoring Potter, who was now trading school ground insults with Yax, Malfoy Jr had been right about one thing; the kid was  _ idiotically _ easy to rile up. "What now?" he asked. 

"Now we carry on with our part of the plan," Hermione answered immediately, her teeth going into her bottom lip and one arm resting awkwardly in front of her body. Antonin didn't like the 'our', especially when that included Potter and Weasley, he needed that to be an ‘us’ a ‘we’; one that meant her and him.

"What else do you need from us?" he asked.

She quietly conferred with Harry and Reuben used the opportunity to whisper to him. "I'm amazed you're keeping your cool, she's not yours yet… She's alone in a small tent, in various secluded spots around the country, with boy wonder, and look at them, they seem  _ incredibly _ close," he taunted. 

Antonin couldn't help but look over at the pair following Rueben's words, even though he knew that was playing into his hands. They  _ were _ standing close together, with Harry speaking in hushed tones, from the way his mouth was moving Antonin was sure Hermione couldn't get a word in edgeways. He didn't like it, but he didn't feel out of control, their posture didn't speak of desire, he couldn't see any evidence that either was harbouring affection for the other, outside of their friendship. 

Having sensed that he might need to work a little harder Yaxley spoke again, "Or maybe it's the ginger kid…. you know how those Weasley's breed, the next time we meet them there might be a whole family living in that tent."

_ Shit _ . Antonin had to focus on counting the leaves on the forest floor to not kill his best friend, and hers, before taking her to the top of some tower where no one would ever see her again. He was not jealous of a teenager,  _ he was not, _ but he remembered the resentment he felt when, after discovering her picture all those months ago, Lucius had relayed information from Draco about her, a part had said there was an expectation she had been with Weasley…  _ intimately _ , and was destined to marry him.

He was distracted by his murderous thoughts that Antonin was almost startled by the little witch addressing them. "If you truly want to help,” she began falteringly, “there is something you can do for us," she said, and he noticed the stiffness in her posture.

"Name it," he responded automatically.

She looked at Harry one more time before sucking in a breath, whatever it was it was big. "Err… Kill the snake… Nagini," Hermione elaborated hesitantly.

Antonin had no idea what the expression on his face looked like, but it was enough to make her wince. The clearing was silent for a full ten seconds, Yaxley recovered himself first. 

"I'm sorry Granger, I must have misheard you…. I was under the impression you just asked us to kill the Dark Lord's familiar."

"Look if you don't want to be invol-" Harry interjected angrily.

Reuben cut him off, "-A creature he  _ sleeps _ with," Hermione and Potter paled but it wasn't enough to derail his friend, "and yet you will give us  _ no more information-" _

"It's not safe for you to know," Hermione implored.

"I will decide that," Yaxley snapped back.

"If he gets this information from your mind,” she said shaking her head, “it could change the course of the whole war," she countered. 

"Snape knows doesn't he?" Antonin asked, it was more accusation than a question, it was a petulant point, but one that had been nagging at him for weeks.

"Yes," Hermione admitted, looking up at him, her eyes soft.

"So you told him, but you won't tell us?" Antonin was fighting to keep his promise and not shout, but it was becoming more difficult.

"Dumbledore told him," she clarified.

"How do you know that?" Yaxley asked incredulously; his disbelief was one Antonin shared.

"I didn't ask _ specifically _ for what he sent, I asked him to send something that would help," she explained, as if speaking to two errant children and his mind finally caught up.

"He knew what it was?" He offered, following her train of thought, feeling somewhat appeased that at least she seemed to think the same level of security applied to all of them. She nodded her assent and Antonin shifted his weight.

"Why would he help you?" he asked, not letting the relief from the earlier revelation show in his face, there was still too much unsaid. Why, that was the bigger question,  _ why would Snape put himself in the middle of all this? _

"I don't know," Hermione replied, and this time Antonin was aware she was lying, or at least omitting something.

"Hermione, you need to give us something," he beseeched.

She looked back at Harry who dramatically shook his head, and her eyes became pleading. Antonin's heart lifted at that expression. Whatever else may happen, by bringing the parcel she at least trusted him to some degree. The silent communication between the two continued until Potter abruptly shouted "NO," at her, the unexpectedly, loud sound drawing the birds from the trees.

Antonin unconsciously lunged forward. "Watch your tongue Potter." His tone was like ice and Potter, even as dumb as he was, wasn't stupid enough to ignore the threat right in front of him and he backed away from Hermione slightly. His witch faced him, searching for something in his eyes before squeezing her own shut. "I'm… I'm sorry Harry, we have to give them something,” she said not taking her eyes off Antonin.

"Hermione," Potter warned as she opened her mouth. "HERMIONE NO!"

The next minutes flashed by in a blink, Potter had leapt forward, wand in hand, towards her, and Antonin reacted on instinct. Yaxley had flicked his hand to disarm the  _ Chosen One _ as Antonin stepped, barging straight into Potter's body, twisting his much larger form to bring his right shoulder up to collide with the boy's windpipe.

As Potter lay on the floor, gasping for air, Yaxley walked passed his crumpled form and reached down to Hermione, who had fallen next to her friend, giving her wand he had taken.

"He wasn't going to hurt me, just apparate us away," she said in a mildly chastising tone, while dragging Potter back up on his feet. Antonin nodded, he wasn’t going to tell her he had been certain that was Potter's intention all along, harmful intent or not the boy had been trying to leave with her, and ever since Hermione had turned up looking like a famine survivor Antonin had really wanted to hit something. That it had been Potter, and that he had deserved it was the cherry on top.

Potter swayed on his feet as Hermione helped him sit back down, leaning him against a boulder, he still looked pretty dazed but otherwise fine, which was unfortunate. Antonin watched as she placed a firm hand on her friend’s shoulder and released a shaky breath. "We are working on something that will make the Dark Lord...  _ mortal. _ "

The clearing once again was reduced to stunned silence; Antonin turned to look at Yaxley,  _ this was bigger than they had anticipated.  _

"And... do you feel that this will be a success?" Yaxley asked, betraying nothing.

She nodded. "With the help, you have provided us. Today, I have real faith that we can get this done," she said confidently.

Yaxley stared at her before straightening out. "Right well consider the snake dead… Do we need to bring that to you as well?" he asked, with evident distaste.

"Oh... err…. no,” her face screwed up, “Just dead...  _ very dead, _ is enough."

Potter was coming back around and if Antonin was reading his agitated expression correctly he was done with this encounter. "Hermione we have to go,” the boy began, rubbing his neck with a fierce look at Antonin. “Ron will wonder where we are," he demanded, like the petulant child he was. 

"Wait a moment Potter, I need a word with Hermione," Antonin said, as he walked forward, "alone," he barked while looming over him.

"No bloody way," Potter spat.

"I'm sorry, I had not realised you were the Head of her House, excuse me," he strode past him and grabbed Hermione by the arm, pulling her into his side and walking them into the tree line. Once they were out of sight of the clearing, Antonin came to an abrupt stop and pushed her behind a tree. "You look shocking," he accused, running a hand across her cheek and pushing the limp hair out of her eyes. 

"Thank you, Antonin, it's been  _ lovely _ to see you too," Hermione replied sarcastically. 

He rolled his eyes at her attitude. "You know what I mean Hermione; you aren't looking after yourself."

"I'm living on the run, with two boys,” she said, as if that was a complete explanation for her appearance and he growled slightly, his arms tightening their grip on her slim shoulders, he was surprised when her face broke into a small smile.

"I'm glad this is funny to you," Antonin snapped with embarrassingly little heat.

He wanted to use the limited time he had to  _ feel _ her, but he needed answers. The need to unburden himself from the nagging thoughts he had trailing him for weeks was overwhelming. He thought if she left that day, without clearing his head he might go finally mad.

"Why do you trust Snape?" Antonin asked, using his fingers to trace the freckles that lined the bridge of her nose. 

"He helped me," Hermione answered quickly, apparently truthfully.

"There isn't something more?" he pushed, stepping forward till their faces were mere inches apart. The momentary flash of complete horror on her face was enough to convince him that there weren't feelings, at least from her direction.

"Why would you think that?" Hermione asked, clearly perplexed by his deduction. 

"He… well, you would seem like his type," Antonin answered vaguely, the thought only having just occurred to him.

"I wasn't aware he had one," she replied cheekily.

He laughed at that, allowing his hands to trail down her arms, landing at her waist slowly. "When will I see you again?" Antonin asked urgently, he knew they were already on borrowed time. He couldn't help himself from invading her personal space like he had a Grimmauld, dropping his forehead to hers, it wasn't even conscious, mostly, whenever he saw her a compulsion to get closer just took over.

"I don't know; we have a lot to do." Her response was breathy, and he drank in her darkening eyes and softening posture. "A month again?” she suggested, “to let us know about the snake?" and Antonin nodded against her hair.

She cleared her throat, her body straightening and he stepped back in response. "I… I need something else," she began.

"Anything," Antonin replied, before the full request had left her mouth. 

"I need to find out where Luna is, Luna Lovegood, she's been taken… I need…. I need her to be safe Antonin."

His blood rushed south at hearing his name fall from her lips while they were stood so close together, Antonin fought against the clouding of his mind. "Your little blonde friend is okay," he soothed. 

Tears began to form at the corners of her eyes, and Hermione exhaled a sharp breath, effectively ending his heated response. He caught her as her body collapsed slightly, in what he imagined was the relief, wiping tears that escaped her eyes before they could fall on her cheeks. 

"She's in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, she's not being interfered with," he murmured hoping to reassure her. He hated to see her sad and yet he was slightly mesmerised by her response at the same time. She was so tough, this little witch, battling against the world, sharp and caustic to him and yet, so fragile, so soft, so vulnerable at the same time. 

"Thank you," she replied, her voice thick with emotion.

"I didn't… I would have,” he tried to explain. “I already knew she was important to you, but Rabastan Lestrange got their first." Antonin was not thrilled to make the admission. Rabastan’s presence in the dungeons had been something he was surprised by, something that he had decided to monitor, albeit from afar. At first, he had suspected his actions were linked to Hermione, but as time went on, he wasn't so sure.

"What?" she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief, Antonin cursed himself for mentioning the other man's name. If they had more time, he would have let the conversation derail, answered all of her questions, soothed her, but he had been holding himself back to long.  _ And if she has questions you know she’ll come back _ , his mind whispered, and Antonin suppressed a slight shiver at the truth of the taunt.

"No more questions," he commanded roughly. 

He needed something that he could remember when she disappeared again, a memory that would chase away the paranoia that multiplied the longer she was gone from his life. Chaste kisses at Grimmauld Place weren't enough anymore. His lips crashed on top of hers, instantly registering the increased friction from the chapped surface of her mouth, and his hand moved to grip a handful of her curls, twisting them into what he hoped was the right side of painful. Her answering whimper fuelled him to nudge her mouth open gently, and she complied moments later. As Hermione moaned against him he seized the opportunity, his tongue thrusting into her mouth desperate to taste her. Antonin was lost, his mind conjured an image of the bleak nights of Azkaban as it stuttered in its attempt to find a comparison to the sensory retreat he felt. His perception of the world around them fell away as he hungrily explored her mouth. The comparison wasn’t a good one, the prison had been deprivation on every level, and this was an explosion, the very opposite ends of the scale, and yet just as sure to drive him to the edges of his sanity.

Antonin felt her respond, her faltering movements revealed her inexperience, and he lost what remained of his control. He pushed her harder against the tree, hoisting her up from under her thighs and encouraged her to wrap her slim legs around his waist so that he could continue forcibly kissing her with their heads aligned.

When he felt her glorious little body begin to melt into him, Antonin moved his mouth to her neck, leaving a trail of wet opened mouth kisses along her collarbone hoping to leave his mark. "When this is over Hermione, you will be mine, and there will be no more Potter and Weasley in tents," he panted out. 

"There will always be Harry and Ron," she countered, albeit breathlessly.

"Not in my house there won't be," he replied hotly, returning to her mouth and grinding against her, he gave himself over to the passion of the moment for a while, pushing back the knowledge of how fleeting this would be. He eventually pulled himself up, resting a hand on her face, and taking advantage of her being level with him to catalogue her features. Seeing her pale skin and tired eyes he felt his heart constrict. 

"A month is too long Hermione I'm... You don't look well. Why not come back with us now, shower, have some food, some rest, then go back out?" He could see her swaying, felt her drawing to the plan; he wouldn't give her time to think, time to change her mind. "Come on solnyshko,” he implored, laying gentle kisses along her jaw, “we'll go now, grab Potter before he has time to protest, and apparate straight there. One day, that's all, just one day."

Before she could respond a call sounded from the direction of the clearing, "HERMIONE!"

Antonin felt her stiffen at the sound and saw resolve creep into her expression,  _ fucking Potter _ . Antonin’s head dropped to her shoulder despondent until he could feel small, tentative hands working their way into the hair at the nape of his neck. He lifted his face to look at her while she continued her tender ministrations, revelling in the simplicity of her initiating touch.

"What if none of this works?" Hermione whispered, her eyes searching his. He basked in the breaking of her confident exterior, he didn't want her weak, she would have no appeal to him that way, but he took heart in her  _ wanting _ to share her fears and hesitations with him. She was finally giving him something of what he needed, asking him questions, relying on him to answer, relying on him to take care of it.

"We're covering both sides; I told you my priority when I left Azkaban was that we get out of this alive and," he moved his hand to grasp her jaw softly, "...that includes you."

Her eyes bore into his. "You should know my priority for now has to be Harry," she said with an air of regret, and Antonin huffed. "He needs to be here to end it, and he's my friend Antonin."

He dropped his forehead to hers again. "What about me Hermione? Where do I fall in your priorities?"

"Well, I've… I've thought about you, a lot, since we saw each other last. I haven't been able to sleep dreading that you wouldn't be here today… I…. It's not just about your help, there is something about you," she admitted quietly, studying his face as if searching for some reason she could find there to anchor her feelings onto.  _ Had she felt something similar to the urgency that seemed to drive him? _

"Hermione," he breathed and moved closer, laying a trail of worshipful kisses from her mouth, along her jaw, down her neck and back to her collarbone.

"We have to go back," she said, and Antonin instinctively pushed her against the tree vigorously, Hermione laughed a little at his reaction, and he smiled against the warm skin of her neck. "We can't leave Harry and Yaxley together much longer, or we might be both down a friend." 

Antonin laughed and fought against every desire he had to apparate her away, while she was still in his arms. Eventually, he stepped back, letting her legs gently fall to the floor, before pulling her towards him again in a replica of their position at Grimmauld Place, her head tucked under his. He tried to ignore that his arms wrapped around her much further than they had the last time.

Sighing heavily Antonin pulled her hand, and they started walking back to the clearing, wrapping his fingers around hers, wondering if this would be the only time she would willingly follow him. As they approached their friends Antonin expected her to pull away from his grasp, he wouldn't have let her, but he was relieved when she maintained the connection. Potter looked angrier than he had ever seen him, and he watched the young boy eye his hand clasping Hermione's and was concerned that the Chosen One might do himself an injury if he continued to grind his teeth in that way. Yaxley was leaning against a tree, appearing without a care in the world. A quick wink indicated he had been having a little fun of his own at the boy’s expense. 

Antonin was reluctant for Hermione to go with Potter while he was in such a temper, until she squeezed his hand, letting go and rolling her eyes at Potter's steely glare.

"Bye," she called to Yaxley who gave her an amused smile and a casual salute. Hermione turned back around to him before she left, standing motionless for just a moment. "One month," she said, and then she was gone. Antonin stood, facing the direction they left in until long after she had disappeared from view.

He turned back around to face Reuben, who was still leant against the tree, exuding an air of casual indifference that Antonin knew was masking the piss-taking that he would be subjected to for at least two of the next four weeks. 

"Well that was entertaining as ever,” Reuben said with a lopsided smirk, “I used to think our lives were interesting, but Hermione certainly adds something doesn't she?" 

"They can make the Dark Lord mortal?" Antonin questioned, he wanted to get this bit out of the way while they had no chance of being overheard, Hermione had been right to keep that information close to her chest. Though he was glad they knew, this changed everything.

Yaxley became serious, his hand coming up to rub his stubble lined jaw reflectively. "She wasn't lying, she might have been made to believe a load of shit, but whatever she's been told, she believes it," Reuben mused, and Antonin agreed.

"So we kill the snake?" he asked. 

"Yes, we kill the snake," Reuben confirmed resigned, before kicking a stone with his boot. “Did it have to be the fucking snake though? Really? In the list of shit jobs that I have no desire to do that is now the clear top of the list.”

Antonin allowed himself to shudder; they were going to have to re-plan somethings. 

As they began to walk away Yaxley folded his arms across his chest. "Hermione? She looked…"

"I know," Antonin sighed, "next time, I'm taking her." He had resolved that he would take her back to Yaxley's townhouse at their next meeting, whether she was willing or not.

"That's... bold," Reuben replied with a slight frown. Antonin’s eyebrows went up slightly at his friend’s uncharacteristic solemnity, but he tried not to draw attention to it. 

"Oh I know," Antonin huffed out a laugh. "She'll hate me, but you need to be alive to hate, and looking at her she could waste away out here."

"I'm not sure there has ever been a witch in my house that didn't want to be there, that should be novel," Yaxley uttered, attempting to keep a straight face, but his eyes gave him away. Not that he was being untruthful, Antonin had seen a fair few over the years that had been  _ quite keen _ to outstay their welcome.

By silent agreement they walked further, moving past their original point of apparition, both needing more time to clear their heads before rejoining the real world. He was reluctant to leave the forest, knowing she was here somewhere. Both fell into their own thoughts, Antonin was agreeably entertained replaying his encounter behind the tree when a thought popped up.

"What did you say to Potter?" he inquired, remembering the young boy's temper.

"Well, you had been gone a couple of minutes, and he started to look upset,” Reuben said casually,  “he complained that Hermione was taking too long, and he was going to check on you. I didn't imagine your _ conversation _ was one you wanted to be interrupted, so I stopped him."

"How?" Antonin asked, brow furrowing, he didn't imagine anything would have permeated Potter’s thick head enough to prevent him from acting.

"I told him you were fucking her against the tree, and that he probably didn't want to see that," Reuben deadpanned. 

Antonin laughed so hard as he imagined Potter's face he had to kneel on the floor, he attempted to speak several times before the words would come out. "Well, that makes things easier, she won't even be angry with me for kidnapping her, she'll be glad of the extra time to tear strips off you."

"It worked, didn't it? And if life is a little less  _ cosy _ in that tent for a few days well all the better for you."

Antonin couldn't argue with that.


	17. Chapter 17

Remembering you how you used to be  
Slow drowned   
You were angels   
So much more than everything   
Hold for the last time then slip away quietly   
Open my eyes   
But I never see anything

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Hermione’s entire being was consumed by the burning sensation gripping her lungs, and the deafening thrum of blood pounding in her ears. Her laboured panting was constant, and in spite of how loud it must have been, she couldn't hear it, the noise drowned out by the intense screaming inside her mind. Incoherent rambling and curses, the likes of which she would never have even dreamt of using, rushed through her mind like a torrent.

She had never run so fast, or so far, in her life, with a pang that threatened to bring tears to her eyes Hermione realised the futility of her predicament as she felt her knees throb, she couldn't hold out much longer. Her worn out body was no match for the determined pace, months of malnourishment had meant the decline of her admittedly low level of fitness. 

A sudden contraction in her stomach made her wince. The small dinner they had managed to forage together the night before was now at risk of being expelled. 

Hermione could feel the lack of sleep in every thud of her feet on the unforgiving ground, her much-worn trainers offering little in the way of cushioning.

Blind terror began to creep in at the edges of her brain, the effort required to stop herself from transcending into the spiral of a panic attack, made her less able to negotiate her surroundings accurately. As she continued running ungainly, Hermione repeatedly collided with branches and tripped over rocks, till she had abrasions covering her face and arms. She dimly registered that she would be forever be marked by the road her life had taken, since joining Hogwarts.

When Harry had first uttered Voldemort's name, they had acted immediately. They started off in the same direction, but over time the three of them had fanned out, they must now have been fairly far apart, it had been several minutes since she had seen either of them. Every now and again Hermione registered the sound of other people, but had no idea if they were friend or foe. She couldn't risk turning her head to the side, she was trying to dodge too much.

Her silent yells, willing her body to keep moving were interrupted when she heard the unmistakable sound of Ron falling to the ground; it had to be Ron due to the litany of swear words that fell into the air, from somewhere to the right of her.

She knew it was over then.

_ It was over. _

It was over. 

They were going to die… Would it be qu... STOP! She commanded herself.

None of them would leave the others, Hermione desperately wanted to get Harry to safety, but they couldn't leave Ron. She raced through her brain, trying to think of  _ anything  _ at all that would make this situation less dire.

Gathering the last of her strength Hermione ran towards where she believed Ron had fallen, Harry had just reached him, and without warning she shot a Stinging Hex straight into Harry's face. He dropped to the floor, yelping in pain, and Hermione averted her gaze from the knee-jerk accusation in his eyes. There wasn't time to explain now. She could already hear footsteps approaching them, and moved to stand in front of the two boys on the floor, she wouldn't be much of a barrier, but it was better than none while they were both trying to gather themselves off the ground. Hermione could hear Harry whimpering in pain and felt her throat constrict, before looking over at him and pointedly making a vague gesture towards her face with her hand and he nodded in understanding, at least Hermione hoped it was, tears were still streaming down Harry’s face from the unexpected attack.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice distorted from the inflammation of the right side of his face. "I'm sorry." Even with Harry’s face looking so unfamiliar the despair he felt was easily readable in his eyes and she tried to morph her face into an expression that would provide comfort.

"Me too Harry, me too."

* * *

Hermione was lying prostrate on the cold stone floor. She speculated as to whether she was still in the very centre of the room, or whether she had now moved from where she first landed. Her vision, what was left of it, was a sea of varying shades of grey. It was oddly beautiful in a way, like standing too close to a charcoal drawing, Hermione couldn't make out the overall picture, only vague shapes, directions of lines, more impressions of movement than anything else.

Hermione had made a string of silent promises when they first got into the imposing reception room, so far she had only managed to keep two, she had kept her eyes open, and not told them anything about the Sword. It had hurt her pride when she had not been able to hold on to the other pledges, but she would face this ordeal like the Gryffindor the Sorting Hat had said she could be, and she would maintain her loyalty  _ to those who had earned it _ .

Not that any of the broken promises mattered anymore. She was dying. Hermione felt it as surely as the certainty she had in her first Charms lesson, when she had been so desperate to show that she  _ deserved  _ to be there that she had levitated the crisp white feather to the classroom ceiling. She had  _ known _ how to do that charm, known it way down to her bones, as she  _ knew _ now. She knew she was fading.

Hours ago,  _ was it hours? _ While she had been running through the forest, the thought of death had her heart rate spiking; it had triggered a thousand negative thoughts to cascade through her mind.

They still had objects to destroy; she still had to sink into the murky pool of information on the Deathly Hallows, and find out how that slotted into  _ Dumbledore's Magical Mystery Tour. _

She would never see her parents again.

She would never see Luna again.

She would never see him again.

There was no more panic now, Hermione could still feel the pain but it was duller, further away, she couldn't isolate precisely where the cuts were being made anymore. She puzzled groggily if this was the beginning of the separation of mind from body.

It hadn’t been like that for long, for such a long time the pain had been violent, unending and maddening, but then a sense of calm had come over her, wrapping her in a blanket like her dad had done when she was poorly as a child.

The serene sensation had spread, enveloping Hermione in a feeling of safety that she couldn't quite quantify, like when Antonin pulled her close to him, his chin resting over hers, his arms around her.

_ Warm, content, safe. _

Hermione had a vague recollection of reading something about a consciousness similar, in one of the medical journals her mother insisted were dotted around her parent's dental practice. Her father had hated those magazines, said that ‘visiting the dentist was depressing enough, without having to read about the increase in heart disease in the over fifties, while sitting, sweaty palmed, waiting for a filling’.

The article had collated stories from people who had near death experiences. There was a whole section with examples from those who had come close to drowning, in their recounted tales almost all spoke of a desperate struggle for air, while there mind devolved into a state of complete distress, before a sense of peace washed over them.

Hermione felt warmer at the thought of her parents, and their mild bickering, it took the edge off the cold from the floor that had been eating into her bare back. Small flashes of everyday life flashed before her eyes, and she sagged.

She didn't know if there was an afterlife, if there was, when her parents got there would they remember her? Even if their memories hadn't been restored? Hermione waited for the chest crushing sadness that came whenever she thought of her them, but it didn't come.

Hermione felt peace. 

Total ease, a feeling so unfamiliar and yet so beautiful in its simplicity. She mused that she might finally understand what drove people to take mind altering drugs. If the kind of mental freedom they were chasing was anything like what she was experiencing, it explained a lot about the billion pound industry.

She had been fighting for so long, and she was  _ so _ very, very tired.

Fighting for acceptance.

Fighting to have a voice.

Fighting for others without a voice.

Fighting for Harry.

Fighting to live.

It would be nice to stop, to have a rest. 

_ Everyone would be fine _ .

Hermione was sure they had figured out most of it by now anyway. 

A particularly sharp pain permeated the growing fog in her mind and Hermione flinched, or at least she thought she did. She could make out a dull cackle, and a glint of silver invading the grey of her world, but she couldn’t hold onto it. The impressions slipped through her mind like age old dust, between stiff fingers.

How long before she would break? What good would she be then?

She didn't want to be a burden.

What would Hermione Granger be useful for without her much-lauded mind?

No, she was sure it would all be fine, she could let go soon.

* * *

Once the Snatchers had tracked them down and interrogated them, quickly seeing through their paper thin identity deceptions, the trio had been told they were being taken to Malfoy Manor.

Hermione lamented that she hadn't had the foresight to come up with better aliases in advance, not that it would have mattered. Between Harry's scar and her and Ron's distinctive hair, any duplicity would have been short lived, and even if they had come across a group of Snatchers that had believed their story, it was unlikely they would let a group of school age children go, whoever they said they were.

News of the destination didn't prompt a reaction from any of them, on the one hand, they were resigned,  _ what did it matter now?  _ They weren't escaping, so they might as well be taken straight to Voldemort rather than being forced to sit around and wait for the axe to fall. The other part was pure Gryffindor stubbornness; they would not show their fear.

A Snatcher, Hermione heard one of the others call Scabior, moved to her side as soon as they began walking. He pulled her to him as they led the group out of the anti-apparition wards, the rough, possessive gesture, reminded her of Antonin, and Hermione’s heart dropped a little further when she thought of the feared Russian she had come to think so much of. She had been amazed by the passion he had brought out of her at their last meeting; no one had ever made her feel that much fire. As she had regarded his dark chocolate eyes, and marvelled as they darkened, she had felt desirable and invulnerable. Safety was a concept miles away from her now.

Hermione was nudged from her mental 'happy place' as Scabior's hands touched her face, his grubby fingers poking out from the ends of much worn, fingerless gloves. Bile rose in her throat as she regarded the dirt lodged under his uneven fingernails. Scabior pulled the hair away from the side of her face and began whispering a non-ending trail of filth into her ear. Hermione fought the tears that threatened, and actively attempted to stop her body from betraying a reaction to his words. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing she was affected, or worse still, revealing her inexperience.

When his words provoked no reaction the Snatcher began touching her; he ran his hand over her cheek, and down her neck, Hermione heard Ron shout in protest followed by a dull thud and a yelp of pain. She wanted to bellow at them to not worry, that she would be okay, but she couldn't get her mouth to co-operate. Probably because she didn't believe it.

As Scabior’s rough hands greedily continued their relentless movements Hermione forced herself to think of something else, if they made it to Malfoy Manor she would see Luna, they could try and get her out, she just needed to push aside her fear and think of a plan.

Mulling over potential ideas, Hermione became increasingly aware of discord between Scabior and Greyback. Hermione knew she had seen the wolf when they had first stopped into the clearing, but she had forced herself not to think of it, not to panic. She wasn't the same girl anymore, the one that had hidden in the empty corridor at Hogwarts, hoping that the feared werewolf wouldn't find her. That wasn't to say that he didn't terrify her, he did, but she had seen too much now to continue to believe that she would come out of this unharmed. 

The procession of Snatchers and detainees stopped as the two men became more embroiled in their outburst. Angry words and threats of reprisals culminated in Greyback lunging forward suddenly, knocking Scabior several feet back. Without warning the intimidating wolf clasped Hermione  around the shoulders, pulling her away from the others and into his body, her back to his front. She felt his nose pushing into her hair, and then a deep inhale, that heated the back of her sweat lined neck. There were several more shouts back forth, from the assembled Snatchers, and then they began walking again.

"I thought I recognised you," Greyback breathed into her ear, shifting her body, so Hermione was curled up on his side. "I remember you, from the corridor in Hogwarts; you smelled wonderful that night.” Hermione shuddered in spite of herself. “Your fragrance is lovely, but when mixed with your very obvious fear it is simply maddening," he leant forward, his teeth resting on the soft skin of her neck, she couldn't suppress the wince, and he let out a low chuckle. "You are so wonderfully responsive, Hermione."

She felt herself shiver at the delight in his tone; there was no way this would end swiftly now. From the little she had picked up of Scabior's manner it had been reasonably likely the Snatcher would have been far from gentle, but with everything she knew about Greyback she was confident he would rip her to pieces.

"If I had any idea that night who was behind that curtain,” he continued, whispering as if his words were honeyed promises, for a cared for lover, “what you looked like, what you would smell like up close, I wouldn't have let Rabastan chase me off."

Greyback spent the rest of the journey rubbing himself all over her, stopping regularly to inhale her scent. Hermione tried her best to ignore most of his comments, as her increased terror seemed only to arouse him further.

A lifetime later they made it to the gates of Malfoy Manor, and onto the impossibly long drive. Hermione looked around at the magnificent gardens and peacocks strutting about the place.  _ This was where Draco had grown up? _ It looked like an evil castle from a Disney film, which was strangely fitting.

Hermione had thought that being caught and held possessively by Fenrir Greyback would be the worst of the day's misfortunes, but when the main entrance clicked open, and they walked into a reception room, that would not have been out of place in Satis House, to find Bellatrix Lestrange waiting to greet them, she knew that the bad luck was only just beginning.

Then began an identification sequence that would have been funny had their lives not been at stake, as Lucius and Bella fought over the right to call the Dark Lord. Then the most surprising scene of all came courtesy of Draco, who claimed he wasn't able to identify Harry, and even Hermione, with her admittedly terrible deduction abilities, knew he was lying. 

She saw Draco’s gaze flick to where she was being held against the wolf, one of Greyback’s claw-like hands holding her neck the other at her hip, the hip that Antonin had marked. Draco's eyes looked vacant, almost expressionless; they reflected none of the cold, smirking cruelty she had expected.

At some point, they found the Sword of Gryffindor, and the atmosphere seemed to blacken. Hermione thanked Merlin that they had destroyed the Diadem before returning to the campsite. Bella was so enraged following the discovery, that her face contorted to the point she barely looked human. The harridan demanded that the boys be sent downstairs, they struggled and kicked and fought, but they were removed. Ron screamed the whole way, his yells audible for minutes after he was no longer in sight. Harry grappled against his opponents but he never spoke a word, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s, and she returned his stare, desperate to hold on to warm eyes as long as possible. They had long been able to communicate  _ so _ much with a look, in the way of great friends. Harry’s face implored her to hold on, hers for him to survive.

"Give her to me dog!" Bella commanded when the commotion had died down.

Greyback snarled, the wolf was  _ very reluctant  _ to let her go, but Bella promised he could have ‘what was left of her’. He seemed mildly subdued by that, and raised his hand to Hermione’s jaw, pushing her head back before tracing his nose from her neck down to her shoulder. "Not long now little one," he spoke into her ear. "I think I might like to keep you a while," he mused before placing his sharp teeth around her earlobe but didn't bite down. "Leave her face Bella," he barked.

"Why do you care? It's not like you'll leave her pretty."

Bella yanked her out of Greyback's arms and immediately threw her to the floor, as if touching her skin would contaminate her. Greyback bared his teeth at Bellatrix before retreating to lean against a wall, just off to the side. Any chances of an immediate death had faded long ago, but even in Hermione’s worst imaginings, she had never considered being a toy for Bellatrix Lestrange and then a  _ reward  _ for Fenrir Greyback.

Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect next, and when the first Crucio hit her, with a crippling force she hadn't had a chance to prepare herself, not that more time would have helped, she was wandless and weak.

The pain was unbelievable, Hermione was flat on her back, her body contorting in unnatural positions within seconds. If you hadn't felt it before you would never be able to understand it, a macabre ‘Mexican wave’ of bones breaking, reforming, and breaking again, flowing up and down her body. At times it felt as if her flesh was being slowly removed, like she was being stabbed by a thousand knives. Time seemed to stop altogether; she had no comprehension of how long she had been under the Curse.

When Hermione was capable of maintaining a thought, her mind conjured the spider.

The spider Professor Moody, or well Barty Crouch Jr, had enlarged in the fourth year, during their inappropriate lesson on the Unforgivable Curses. Hermione remembered how gruesome it had looked when all of its legs had stuck out at funny angles, how much pity she had felt for that tiny creature. How Neville's face had paled, and how she had stood from behind her desk, screaming at her professor to stop.

At some point Hermione realised she wasn't replaying the begging in her head anymore,  _ she _ was begging, out loud, pleading with Bellatrix to stop. The first promise she had made herself fell like ashes to the floor.

Some time later the pain abruptly stopped, and Hermione breathed in heavily, her lungs filling with much-needed air. 

The reprieve was to be short lived. 

When she refused to answer any of the questions directed at her, Hermione felt a knife against her skin. The cold point being almost as jarring as the slate at her back. First, it was dragged idly around her body, in movements that could almost have been described as lazy, before a quick, deep incision was made on her forearm. As soon as the knife drew fresh blood, Greyback reacted violently, rushing forward and unseating Bella from her position, ranting and threatening until he was ejected from the room. Bella didn’t let the disturbance put her off her course, and a twisted pattern formed;  _ interrogation, refusal, Crucio, interrogation, refusal and knife. _

After an unknown period Hermione could feel that tears were leaking from her eyes, and repeated bouts of the Curse had resulted in the loss of control of her bodily functions, two more promises burned. Hermione had wanted to remain brave, and to keep her dignity, they had taken that from her.

The Crucios began to abate, as the knife became favoured. By that point, the Curses left Hermione silently shaking. But the blade could still make her scream. Hermione could just about discern that the majority of the cuts were being inflicted to her forearm. 

Dimly she was aware of a shape being carved; the routine went on, she had no idea how long she had laid there.

Distantly Hermione registered that  some of her clothing must have been removed, she could detect that her torso, in particular, felt colder, she was sure she could feel the slate slabs of the floor directly on the skin of her back.

Hermione stopped begging after her throat gave out, she could taste blood and was just able to turn her head to spit it up when the copper taste made her stomach roll. She could feel it trickling from her nose and her left ear, the sensation irritating her chilled flesh. 

Her head repeatedly thumped against the hard surface of the floor; Hermione couldn’t control the impulse to thrash, she could feel soft spots forming over her skull, tiny patches that felt they could cave in with another hard push. 

But she never told them anything.

They would kill her anyway.

Hermione knew Professor Snape had sent the Sword, but while his  _ side _ wasn't clear, he had proved he was loyal to her, he had kept her safe, she wouldn't betray him to save herself.

A particularly strong Curse threw Hermione back slightly, and her head lolled to the side, she caught eyes with Draco. Hermione wondered if he was thinking of the spell he had cast on her after her detention with Umbridge in the fifth year, the one that deepened the cuts on her hand, spilling what at the time, had seemed like a lot of blood. Hermione was sure they  _ both _ had a better understanding of what constituted 'a lot' now.

When she could make out his face it didn't look like Draco was thinking much of anything, his skin had gone even paler than normal, if that could be believed. He looked almost opalescent under the lights.  _ Surely she was losing her mind now if she was likening Draco's skin to the sheen of a precious jewel? _

Hermione wasn't sure if she minded.

It hurt _ so _ much.

So very, very much.

'They would be ok', a voice in her head started suddenly, 'you can let go, Hermione'.

It was her mother voice,  _ how was she here? _

'You can let go now, baby, Antonin and Yaxley will help them get out of here and complete the task. Professor Snape will help too'.

Hermione relaxed her aching body, letting her mother's comforting words wash over her.

'It will all be ok; you can let go now'.

Minutes or hours later Hermione felt pressure on her stomach and managed to control a flick of her eyes long enough to see Bellatrix climb on top of her. She had been almost rabid during the early interrogation, but now as she leant forward and began cutting into her arm she was completely focused. The maniacal witch’s movements were forceful, deep and unyielding.

Bellatrix was singing, the words were lost to Hermione, but the mocking tone was easily discerned.

The knife went back over an already raw piece of flesh, and Hermione threw up, the movement taking the last of what she knew was a dwindling energy reserve.

* * *

The calm was so lovely; Hermione was ready to accept it now.

_ Mum, are you there? _

'Of course, I am, I'm right here with you'.

_ Will it hurt? _

'Not at all, all the pain will go away. It's ok love you can let go now. You've been so strong baby; I am so proud of you, you can let go’.

_ Mum _

Hermione gave in to the sensation creeping over her limbs, letting herself flee from the room, the cold and the pain.

Everything went black. 


	18. Chapter 18

Remembering you fallen into my arms   
Crying for the death of your heart   
You were stone white   
So delicate   
Lost in the cold   
You were always so lost in the dark

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Antonin was not a happy wizard. He had spent the last week, hauled up in Yaxley's study, working on a plan to kill Nagini. Intermittently, he would be called out on increasingly bizarre, and fruitless missions, from his Lord. It was a testament to the current, sad state of affairs, that plotting the downfall of a snake was the most ‘normal’ thing he had done in some time. Not that the planning had been straightforward. It had taken longer than expected but finally, they had a plan that they _ both _ believed had a good chance of not only working, but affording them the opportunity to avoid detection. The elation Antonin felt at the culmination of their personal strategy sessions had dissipated as soon as he had been called to his Lord's side, the evening before. Antonin had given the conventional display of respect, more feigned now than ever, and had been ordered to patrol in Hogsmeade the next day.

The Dark Lord had heard from Snape that there had been an increasing number of incidents at the school, and was  _ convinced _ that Potter would appear there soon, Antonin had readily accepted and left. Once upon a time, he had been able to debate, albeit respectfully, planned actions his Lord gave to him, that time had long since passed. Antonin didn't believe the trio were likely to make an appearance in Hogsmeade, whatever they wanted from the school they had already gotten it from Snape, they were probably off breaking into some other impenetrable fortress.

Antonin sighed and rubbed his face.  _ Two and a half weeks _ . He must remember to ask Hermione further details on what they were doing; he was beginning to suspect it might have been affecting his Lord's mental state. When he had gotten out of Azkaban, the second time, the Dark Lord's paranoia was at an all-time high, and it had only gotten worse over the last year.

Antonin’s violent thoughts slightly calmed when he thought of Hermione, two and half weeks would feel like a lifetime, but it would be worth it. He would finally take her somewhere safe. Though he expected her to be angry with him, he was almost looking forward to it. He wondered if they would be able to continue the rest of their lives without her ever realising he enjoyed, and was aroused by, her displays of temper.

_ She would get over it,  _ he told himself, Hermione was a logical witch, over time she would understand his motivations, and why he had decided he  _ had  _ to act

When Antonin arrived outside the Three Broomsticks, as commanded, he was greeted by the  _ very unwelcome _ sight of the Brothers Lestrange. Relations between himself and the two men had been frosty at best, but up until now any interaction had been somewhat limited. Antonin was not looking forward to the prospect of spending an entire day in just their company, with no others present to diffuse the possible tension.

He and Rodolphus had not spoken at any length since their tense altercation the night of the Hogwarts mission, and he had barely seen Rabastan. Antonin wanted to question them, with an almost rabid desperation, the more he saw Hermione, the more he felt, he _needed_ to know if they were a threat to her. But he knew he couldn't. _What possible reason could he have?_ _What justifications for his questions could he give?_ He had pushed it as far as he could, without raising their suspicions, if they found out about his interest before he knew their intentions, the consequences for him, and his witch, could be devastating.

So Antonin kept quiet, and they went about their unnecessary mission with as little communication as possible.

* * *

Hours passed, and Antonin was getting tired of trying to nudge Rabastan into snapping for some entertainment. He had noticed that for some reason, the usually volatile younger man was much calmer than he had seen him for some time. Antonin wasn't sure if that was something he needed to be worried about or not. As they were continuing their fifth successive loop of Hogsmeade, walking down a quiet alley, Rodolphus came to an abrupt stop, pulling a blackened piece of parchment from his pocket.

"Rab, Bella wants us back at the Manor, she needs assistance with something,” he said dispassionately, his eyes scanning to the bottom of the note, and he sighed, “and she doesn't trust Lucius."

Rabastan rolled his eyes dramatically before nodding, Antonin interrupted him before he could speak. "I'm coming, whatever it is, it must be more pressing than standing around here doing nothing."

Rodolphus agreed, looking twice as tired as Antonin felt. He wondered, and not for the first, time what it must be like for the man to not only be summoned by the Dark Lord but also receive them from his wife.

They apparated back to the Malfoy estate, and Antonin groaned as they began the long walk down the drive for the millionth time. Halfway down the path, they came across an extremely agitated Fenrir Greyback. Antonin had never had much time for the wolf, while he would never claim to be a  _ good man, _ he had never ripped the throat out of a child, with his teeth. Some might not make the distinction between himself and the mutt, but he would. Greyback had always found a twisted sense of humour from the Death Eater's distaste for his methods.

When Antonin had been younger, freshly marked and fighting vehemently for a cause he believed in, wholeheartedly, he had been furious at the inclusion of the werewolves, if not in their ranks, at least in their association. He had felt that the link would weaken the wizarding world's understanding of their argument, it confirmed, to those that said that ‘Riddle's men’ were a bunch of monsters and sadists, that they were right. Antonin had believed it would hurt their political campaign, that was before he knew that they didn't intend to lobby for power, they were going to rip it from the cold dead hands of those that already had it.

The wolf looked even more unhinged than was normal, and was pacing back and forth, pulling at his long hair, his face twisted cruelly into a series of silent snarls. When he spotted them, his head snapped up, and he stalked towards them. "Who called you?” he growled, “She said she was mine!"

"What are you talking about mutt?" Rabastan answered exasperatedly.

"Whatever is going on here, I'm taking her  _ do you understand me? _ You lot can take the boys to your Lord, and do whatever with them for all I care; I have no interest in the  _ Chosen One _ . She. Is. Mine," he snarled.

Antonin felt an emotion he had not registered fully for decades, terror. The feeling washed over him, removing all other thought, bringing his body to attention as if a bucket of water had been thrown over his head.

_ She _ … and boys?

She couldn't be here.

No

_ No _

NO!

Antonin stepped back from the wolf, who by now was almost foaming at the mouth, and hurriedly pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket, hovering his wand over it for a few seconds before it vanished. He needed Yaxley here  _ now _ . Regardless of the others still standing around arguing, Antonin took off running at full tilt down the stupidly long drive, cursing its ostentatiousness the whole way, like he needed another reason to want to punch Lucius in the throat. By the time Antonin had made it to the door, a panting Rabastan had caught up with him. Rodolphus had apparently stayed behind to calm the rabid wolf.

He didn't stop to speak to Rabastan; he couldn't care less why he was as keen to get in as he was. Antonin threw the door open and stormed into the dingy manor, heading directly for the reception room, where he knew the Snatchers brought anyone of note. He swung open the interior door, with almost enough force to take it off its hinges, and entered into a waking nightmare.

Hermione was lying on the ground, her body looking even more diminished than it had been at their last meeting, when he had held her against a tree and worshipped her beautiful face, her beautiful face that was now marred by blood,  _ her blood _ . Her eyes were wide open but unseeing, her nose, mouth and cheeks  _ covered _ in dark crimson liquid, some of it spilt into her hair, that surrounded her like a dirty halo.

Bellatrix was straddled over her, her thick robes obscuring most of Hermione’s tiny body, the raven black of the fabric looking impossibly severe against the little witch’s too pale skin. Hermione's top had been removed, all that remained covering her thin torso was a well-worn bra, that was now definitely not the colour it had started life. Her flesh was littered with scores of cuts of varying depths and lengths. Then he saw it, carved into her forearm,  _ Mudblood _ .

Hermione wasn't moving, not even twitching. She had no reaction to Bella on top of her, she was…  _ lifeless. _

Antonin would have expected to feel rage, blinding mania, a fury so strong that it would have driven him to kill Bella, her audience of pretty blond, unmoving Malfoys, and anyone else that had the misfortune of being within a ten-mile radius. But his blood did not boil, and his vision did not turn red. Antonin felt hollow, like his insides had been dug out with an ice cream scoop, he wanted to drop to his knees, he wanted to un-see this. 

He felt despair. Total, bone crushing, desperation.

Sometime in the aeons that he had lost staring at her, Rodolphus walked into the room, and Bella raised her head. "Hello husband mine," she singsonged, "look what I did today." 

She lifted Hermione's arm, and Antonin saw it there again, clearer this time ‘Mudblood’ carved...  _ fucking carved, into her fucking arm. _

"She didn't like the Crucio, no she didn't," Bella continued in her maddeningly infantile voice.

Bella mentioning the Curse she had used pushed Antonin out of his detachment, enough to feel that a reaction was imminent, the mania was coming now, and he was glad of it. Anger would block out the pain. He wouldn't use magic, not in the face of this, he was going to rip Bella apart, he was going to squeeze the life out of her, using his bare hands. Antonin wanted to feel the fluttering of her pulse slow, until she was almost gone, then revive her and do it again and again, until she begged and pleaded for a mercy that would not come.

"She stopped screaming a while ago, though… She's not much fun anymore," Bella continued, drawing her bottom lip into a pout.

The crazy bitch sat forward and moved the knife over Hermione's stomach, his little witch didn't move, not even a flinch.

"Is she dead?" 

Antonin started at the words, thinking for a moment that they had fallen unconsciously from his lips, belatedly he realised it was Rabastan who had stepped forward, from his place to the left of him. Bella tilted her head to the side, her tangled, monstrous mane of hair, springing in all directions before her face crumpled in childlike confusion. She chewed over the question as if Hermione already being dead had never occurred to her. Her face dropped down again as she looked back at his witch, and poked her in the shoulder with the hilt of her blade roughly.

"Are you dead little Mudblood?"

Bella shrugged when she received no response, Antonin was no longer sure how he was standing upright, looking at her little body was the worst pain he had ever experienced but he couldn’t tear his face away. He had been too late. He knew she wasn't safe, and he had ignored his instincts, and she had paid for it, paid dearly.  _ How long had she been here? How long had she been made to suffer? How did they find them? _

She had been all alone.

Silence fell in the room until Lucius sighed exasperatedly, staring at his sister in law as if Bella was using the wrong cutlery at a dinner party, instead of mutilating the light of Antonin's life on the reception room floor. 

"I expect she's asked you here because she wants to take the credit for this,” he began icily, “this is my house Lestrange, and I've got Potter and Weasley in the dungeons,  _ my dungeons  _ downstairs. When we call him,  _ I  _ will be taking the distinction that is owed," he demanded in clipped tones.

Antonin took his eyes off Hermione for the first time since he had entered the cursed room to look at Rodolphus, the man made no response to suggest he had even heard Lucius was speaking to him, his eyes pointedly fixed on Hermione, unblinking, emotionless, but not cold just... vacant. Antonin looked to Rabastan who was next to him, his eyes were also locked on the prone girl, but his face wasn't nearly so impassive, it shone with a white heat, his fists clenching and unclenching with abandon.

The stifling quiet that had settled broke when the door to the room opened again, and Reuben walked in. The man obviously had no idea what he was wandering into, though he had come prepared; he walked straight, shoulders back and wand already in hand. Yaxley's eyes searched the room for him, and whatever he saw on Antonin’s face caused him to pause his steps immediately, and his eyes resumed their search, eventually falling on Hermione's still form, in the middle of the stock still Death Eaters. Yaxley’s eyes momentarily widened before he continued pacing towards Antonin, as if nothing had happened, stopping just behind him. Then, hidden from the view of the others present, he laid his hand between Antonin's shoulder blades in a silent show of support.

Antonin inhaled shakily, he needed to detach himself, he could mourn later, and for forever it felt like, there were two of them now. It was two against six, but with the emotions rolling through him he would probably clear a path through half their bodies before the others even had time to pray for death. He hadn't been in time to save her; he wouldn't let the wolf desecrate her body. She deserved more than that.

The tension in the room was palpable, Antonin was aware that a good part of it was down to tensions he didn't know or care about. He began to inch towards Hermione's body, while the rest were distracted by Bella's insane ramblings

"Oh, Lucius just call him already... I think I'm almost done," she said, sitting back on her haunches as if appraising a watercolour she was composing. "Anyway I promised Greyback he could have her after, the Dark Lord won't care what happened to her, it's Potter he wants."

Antonin carried on taking steady steps till he was standing on the other side of the motionless Lestranges. Bella's brow furrowed into a frown as she crouched over his little witch. 

"He said he wanted her pretty, but I don't suppose it matters now, unresponsive as she is." She gripped Hermione's wrist, pulling her arm up before letting it go, to prove her point. Antonin watched as Hermione's too slim, too pale limb clattered to the floor, landing at an awkward angle. His little sunshine did not react.

"I don't think he'll mind if I widen her smile a little though will he?" Bella asked, her face splitting into a cruel smirk. She raised her knife to Hermione's face, but before he could lunge forward a loud pop resonated through the cold stone room. Potter, Weasley, Luna and a house elf landed in the middle of the bizarre scene, next to Bella.

Bella reacted immediately, jumping off Hermione and drawing her wand and pointing it menacingly at the interlopers. Antonin watched as Luna darted forward, undetected in the confusion, and grabbed at Hermione's unresponsive limbs, dragging her from the centre of the room, and out of the way of whatever crossfire would light the air.

Antonin moved over, as quickly as he could without drawing attention. He needed to get her body, and the tiny Ravenclaw out of here. Hermione would likely haunt him if he left Luna behind, his heart constricted at the thought of ghosts, maybe there  _ was _ a way she would come back.  _ Could ghosts return to say goodbye? _

The chaos continued in the middle, the little elf dropped a massive chandelier from the ceiling, trapping Lucius and Narcissa underneath, having knocked them out on the way down. Draco rushed forward, freeing his mother from the light fixture, before levitating her from the room hastily without looking back.

_ Three down, three to go. _

"Hermione," Ron screamed.

The little elf was pulling on both boys' arms desperately, as they simultaneously stared at Hermione and fought fire from the Lestranges.

"Harry!" Luna shouted, "You have to go now!"

Potter looked at Hermione's lifeless form then again at him 'please take her' he mouthed. Antonin nodded, and Potter's eyes glassed over. 

"Now Dobby," he shouted, and the three of them disappeared. As the pop rang out across the room Antonin’s progress was finally noticed, he had made it to Hermione and little Luna curled next to her. Both the Lestrange brothers raised their wands.

"Oh, let him take her," Bellatrix shouted. "She is irrelevant! We have bigger things to worry about now, we have to explain how we let Potter get through our fingers, and he's not going to care about a dead, worthless Mudblood."

The sudden flash of green was so powerful, so bright; it lit up the whole space, a macabre illumination that froze everyone in place.

Bella fell backwards, her entire form rigid, a look of almost comedic surprise etched on her face.

She was dead,  _ very dead. _

Rodolphus was standing, mouth set in a grim line, his wand hand still extended. 

The room was totally silent.

Yaxley took his opportunity and joined Antonin on his side of the room, helping him form a barrier between the brothers, Hermione and Luna.

"Antonin?"

He started, turning he saw Luna looking up at him, her hand resting placatingly on his forearm. "We have to get her out of here, she's lost too much blood," she said pleadingly. 

Antonin couldn't get his mind to work, couldn't get his mouth to speak, his tongue was too big, his thoughts too scattered.

"Antonin!" She shouted this time. "We. Need. To. Leave."

He looked up to find Reuben staring down at Hermione, disbelief written all over his face, his friend, as usual, snapped out of it first. "We are going to my townhouse, the elves can help, come on Antonin," Reuben commanded, dragging his arm and they prepared to apparate, forgetting about everything else but that she was alive. 

_ Hermione was alive. _

"Wait!" the desperate voice of Rodolphus echoed around the room. 

All three figures crouched around his little, living, breathing sunshine looked up.

Rodolphus stared at Hermione. "She's alive?" he asked weakly, his voice not much above a whisper.

"She is," Luna answered, "but Mr Lestrange we need to leave now, she needs help," she said placating.

"Luna," Rabastan was looking directly at the Ravenclaw.

"I… Later," she said faintly. 

The dark haired wizard held her gaze and then nodded.

Antonin looked back at Rodolphus, the man’s face displayed more emotion than he thought he had ever seen from him, this wasn't the time. "Dolph!" he demanded harshly, and Rodolphus looked at him. "We have to go."

Rodolphus stepped forward, "We'll clear up here, but you will send for me Dolohov, do you understand?"

"Yes."

With his confirmation uttered Yaxley gripped his arm tighter, apparating them away.

As the manor disappeared from view Antonin’s thoughts blurred like the location in front of them. 

_ Did he understand? _

_ Shit. _

Merlin, he was pretty sure he finally did.


	19. Chapter 19

With a muted flash of light, they were far, far away from all of the madness, leaving the cold grey despair of Malfoy Manor behind them. Antonin stumbled slightly, blinking from the shock of the brightness inside the townhouse on his tired eyes. When they adjusted, he was once again reminded of the horror that was in front of him. Hermione's small form was still laying on the floor, exactly how she had been when the apparated, except now, instead of the frigid, stained, stone slates, there was lush carpet at her back.

What with trying to comprehend that she was alive, and attempting to persuade the Lestranges to let them go, there had been no time to move her. Antonin automatically dropped to his knees, moving his arms as if to lift her, but his action was stopped by Luna, who once again, placed her hand on top of his arm. "No, levitate her," she commanded, quietly but firmly.

Antonin’s first instinct was to protest; he wanted nothing more than to hold Hermione, to reassure himself that she was there, alive, that her heart was beating, and that she was breathing.  _ That she would be okay _ .

"It could do more damage than good," the delicate blonde continued, and Antonin sagged, waiting just a fraction of a second before capitulating. He obviously didn't want to hurt Hermione, she had already suffered far more than she should ever had, but he couldn't help resenting Luna taking charge. Though he allowed it, Antonin knew his head wasn't in the right place to be of much assistance. His heightened emotions would take time to dissipate. His stints in Azkaban made it more difficult, he sometimes found it hard to establish reality and rational responses to normal situations, let alone what had happened earlier.

So instead of clutching at Hermione, as Antonin wished, he followed Luna and Yaxley through the halls silently, using the time to order his jumbled thoughts. Until the master of the house suggested a bedroom in the family wing, Antonin knew he should probably graciously accept, but he couldn't, only one room would do, especially now. Accurately interpreting his hesitancy at the threshold of the bedroom without words, Yaxley nodded before leading the way to Antonin's room. The room he had occupied on every stay since he was eleven.

When they made it into the neat and airy space, Reuben promptly disappeared to fetch the elves, and Antonin carefully finished levitating Hermione to the bed, laying her broken body on top of the pristine white comforter. He winced as blood immediately began to seep into the soft fabric, as the soft red trickle flowed from her, Antonin began to comprehend just how much of it covered her, the sight of it, the smell, everything was an attack to his senses. He was a wizard that had seen  _ a lot _ of blood in his lifetime, probably a damned sight more than the average person, and he could honestly say that it had never bothered him, even in large quantities, until this very moment. It was almost like he was seeing it for the very first time. It looked so  _ harsh _ against Hermione’s skin, even the simple act of glancing at her caused him pain, but he couldn't look away, just like at the manor. The more Antonin looked, the more he noticed; before he could only see the overall picture, now he saw all of the fragments that made it up. Like how some of the blood had congealed, some had even dried, her body was covered in a spectrum of varying shades of red.

_ How long had she been there? _

As Antonin was stuck in his silent, unpleasant, reverie Luna ducked past him and sought out the bathroom, re-emerging with an armful of towels, some of which she had dampened, and she began cleaning the worst of the blood that was spattered over Hermione's face.

Reuben stalked back into the room, and Antonin observed the grim line of his face, his eyes like stone. "The elves are coming up,” he said, his voice cold and detached, “they are just grabbing some supplies."

Yaxley approached the bed and in his clasped hand was a wand Antonin did not recognise, he proffered it to Luna, and she took it from him without comment and immediately began waving it over Hermione in rhythmic movements.

Reuben’s eyes raked over Hermione, cataloguing her injuries in much the same way Antonin had just done, before he abruptly stopped, the movement did not jar Antonin, he knew  _ exactly _ what his friend had seen. Reuben must not have made out the letters while they were still in that damned room. The jagged violent cuts on her arm were hideous, but the thought that her skin has been  _ branded  _ was far more repellent.

Eyes sore, Antonin looked back at the little Ravenclaw, Luna appeared completely unfazed by the situation, and apart from tucking her hair behind her ears every so often she did nothing but continue to wave the borrowed wand, the movement accompanied every couple of passes, by muttered incantations.

Seconds later three house elves popped into the room, weighed down with various potions in bottles of different shapes and sizes. They made their way over to Luna, clearly identifying her as being in charge of Hermione's care, and began depositing their gathered supplies. 

As time moved forward, traitorously slowly, the elves and Luna seemed to be able to communicate without speaking. They took turns in either proffering the bottles to the blonde, or putting them in order on the sideboard. After every gulp of potion had been poured into Hermione's throat, Luna massaged her neck, tenderly, forcing the liquid to pass down, while the prone girl couldn't do it for herself. The process was arduous, and by the time the sixth, successive potion bottle was empty, and no change had occurred with the little witch on the bed Antonin could feel his control beginning to fray. He lamented that he would have no outlet for his anger now. Bellatrix was dead, very,  _ very  _ dead. It had been far too quick.

Impervious to his distress the group of elves began busying themselves, washing Hermione down, pushing Antonin further back from his firm stance at the foot of the bed with each pass they made into the bathroom, to his growing displeasure. Once they had finished, the smallest one pulled on Luna’s sleeve, and they had a quick conversation before the blonde turned to face him and Yaxley. 

"Turn around, they want to change her clothes," she muttered, and Antonin could hear the tiredness she was fighting in her voice, but it was undercut with a steely resolve that irked him. 

He raised an eyebrow at her incredulously, and in return Luna crossed her arms over her chest. "You will not order me to do anything girl," he bit out.

Her eyes betrayed nothing. "Is this how you want to see her?" The question floated across the room at him, flooring Antonin to the point where he almost missed her continuing, "for the first time?"

He let the words wash over him until he could discern her meaning,  _ how did she know he hadn't seen her before? How did she know he wanted to? _ With a reluctant sigh, Antonin turned around, before whacking Reuben on the shoulder till he did the same.

"Should you not clean her up a bit more before changing her?" he called over his shoulder, as an elf walked passed, carrying what was once a soft green towel, Antonin baulked at its current hue.

"No,” Luna replied, and he heard the movement of cotton as she got to work, “we need to settle her condition first," Luna replied, and he found that rather than anger him, this time her certainty soothed him a little. 

After five minutes of staring impatiently at the wall, Antonin could no longer wait to be asked to turn back around and simply did it. Luna was running a series of charms over Hermione's chest, while one of the elves was tending to her legs, applying cream to her calves.

Antonin attempted to get closer to the bed numerous times over the next half an hour, eliciting increasingly vicious responses from the assembled house elves until eventually, Yaxley manhandled him into a chair in the far corner of the room. Once he had pushed him down his friend instructed his elves that they were allowed to use force, _ if necessary, _ to keep him out of the way.

Antonin glared at him until Reuben sighed, kneeling down in front of him and placing both hands on his face. The gesture immediately reminiscent of when they had seen each other for the first time in fourteen years, after being broken out of Azkaban, no doubt Yax had done it deliberately, to help cut through some of his anxiety.

"Antonin, listen to me,” Reuben began harshly, “I have to go back to the Ministry now, I cannot be gone for too long," Antonin nodded. "You have to leave them to work, please do not hex the elves or the girl in my absence.  _ They are trying to help. _ "

Antonin watched as Yaxley rose up to leave the room, and resolved to at least attempt not to be a hindrance.

* * *

A few hours later the activity in the bedroom had calmed considerably. The elves had largely vacated their vigil, instead coming into the room periodically, bringing in potions for Hermione and food for himself and Luna. After the first couple of visits they stopped trying to get either one of them to eat. Luna didn't stop, didn't even seem to pause for more than a few seconds, her wand waved in repeated strokes, seemingly without tiring. Antonin was unfamiliar with a lot of the spells she used; he had been attempting to track what she cast in case he had to take over at any point, and to keep his mind occupied on something other than the unresponsive witch in the bed. Apart from the on-the-hour Diagnostic Charm she performed, he knew none of them.

Sometime during the night, Luna must have spotted his inquiring eyes, and after completing yet another unknown healing charm, in an unknown tongue, she turned to regard him. "My mother was good at healing magic," she said, in partial explanation.

Antonin recognised from her tone that she had divulged as much as she was  _ willing _ to give on the subject, and he respected her desire not to speak of her late mother. He wouldn't have exactly been thrilled with the idea of discussing his parents with a relative stranger, nor did he wish her to become aware of just how much he already knew. Her file had been made available since his prison escape after all. 

"How is she?" he ventured moments later, he hadn't dared ask the question since they got back, not willing to admit, even to himself, how terrified he was of the answer. Hermione still hadn't moved, she was so heartbreakingly still. Antonin’s mind drifted to darkness as Luna formulated her answer, and his hand gripped the edge or the chair. 

He remembered a night in the sixth year, when himself and Reuben had gotten completely drunk on some cheap firewhisky they had confiscated from a couple of resourceful fourth years. It had been late in the evening when the laughter the drink had induced passed. They were too young to understand the malaise that too much alcohol brought on, but he understood it now. Yaxley had told him about finding his brother, dead and lifeless, and how he had shaken his little body, screaming at him to move, eventually having to be prized off Sebastian’s cold form by the house elves. For the first time since that evening, Antonin thought he might understand the type of anguish his friend had described. 

Hermione’s lack of response was shredding his sanity; he had lived his whole life in a world where the words people spoke meant nothing, actions meant everything, he wouldn't believe she was better until he saw it. Though he asked the empty question anyway, by this point he was desperate for any balm that would get him through the next few hours.

Luna turned to face him, darkening circles appearing under her eyes. "She is a while away from being fine, but the diagnostics are improving."

When the room became silent again Antonin found it was too oppressive, his thoughts were not a suitable distraction anymore, even running through the list of people that had put her there, in that bed, and what he would do to them, was no longer soothing. 

"Why haven't you asked about bringing her here?" Antonin began, and Luna gazed vacantly at him, he continued, "Why trust us?"

Luna looked at Hermione, and Antonin would have thought she was attempting to ignore him, but from a quick glimpse of her profile, she seemed to be considering her response. "She talked about you,” she divulged quietly, “after the Department of Mysteries.” Luna reached forward and ran her fingers over Hermione’s palm affectionately.

"I'm sure the account was far from favourable," Antonin huffed, remembering the fire in her eyes as he tried to explain himself on the dirty cafe floor.

"Not really,” Luna replied with a smile in her voice, as she tucked a stray curl behind Hermione’s ear. “You became a puzzle to her, I think, you got stuck in her mind. She never has liked not knowing something."

Antonin considered Luna’s answer; he hadn't dared to hope that Hermione had any such fixation on him, until the chance encounter at Grimmauld, when he had seen the photo. She must have had it from long before they went on the run, _ why had he never realised that before?  _

"Still, it doesn't explain why you went with us, why you  _ insisted _ we take you. Why not Potter and Weasley?" Antonin pressed firmly. Not that he was complaining, he had let Hermione go  _ three times _ already, and each and every time she had come back worse. There was no way he would have let it happen again, Luna’s compliance had made life easier, but not understanding someone's motives had never sat well with him. 

"Harry is fighting a war, from the front, and while he loves her-" Antonin couldn't help the reflex grunt he made at the seemingly casual reference, but Luna either didn't notice or didn't react, "-he wouldn't have understood how bad it was, how much this will affect her. Antonin, they care about Hermione deeply, but they also need her to help them win. She would have been dragged into something straight after, and she would have gotten hurt again. I wasn’t prepared to let that happen."

"And so you believed two Death Eaters were the better option?" he asked sceptically.

Luna rested the borrowed wand on the end of the bed, and collapsed into the chair behind it, her eyes far away. "I couldn't have mistaken the look on your face Antonin, even if I knew nothing before that, I would have known you cared," she sighed, massaging her fingers. "Hermione has an innate need to take care of everyone around her; I think you would be... a useful ally, in keeping her safe."

Antonin nodded,  _ allies it was then _ , the war made strange bedfellows after all, and he had made agreements with people he hated far more, for far more spurious reasons. 

* * *

Antonin had no idea what time it was anymore, though given the light creeping in through the windows it must have been the early hours of the morning. Yaxley still hadn’t returned, though that was not uncommon, theirs was not the type of job that kept regular hours. He was still sat in the corner of the room, but his tired eyes were focused on nothing. He realised he must have fallen asleep when he felt himself being roughly shaken awake.  

"Wha… What is it?" Antonin murmured groggily, moving his aching jaw, he stood quickly, war honed reflexes preparing him for a potential fight.

When his eyes adjusted he could make out Luna stood in front of him, her face was drawn into a broad smile, her apparent contentment juxtaposed by the tears streaming from her eyes. "She's going to be ok," she said, her throat choked.

"How can you be sure?" Antonin questioned, not yet daring to hope.

"Her aura has shifted," she explained as if that was definitive, and Antonin frowned at her. As with the night before she didn't seem at all perturbed by his severity, and rolled her eyes at him, mumbling something that sounded a lot like 'perfect for each other'. She led him over to her bed and cast a Diagnostic Charm over Hermione, leaving various brightly coloured health indicators illuminating the air between them. Antonin felt his shoulders slightly relax as he studied the glistening information. He might not have known a lot about magic of this kind, but he could interpret the information easily enough, there was no long-term internal damage. He let go of a raspy breath, he wouldn't be okay, not until she was sitting up talking to him, but it was better.

"See," Luna said impatiently, waving her hands at the floating letters, "this shows she is stable."

Antonin walked forward, getting closer to the bed than he had been allowed for the last however many hours to take a better look. Hermione certainly looked more like herself now; it was unbelievable the improvement that could be seen once they had cleaned her up a bit, and put her in a loose fitting shirt of his. He felt a strange emotion at seeing her in his clothes; this was not the way he would have wanted it, though. 

Many of the cuts that littered her body were now healing, but there were various marks, including the one on her arm, that still looked fresh, still appearing wet, and in places oozing as if she had already contracted an infection. 

"The blade, it was dark….cursed,” Luna supplied, as she followed his gaze. “I think it will scar, permanently. Not all of them were like that, but the one on her arm," her breath hitched and he turned to look at her. "She… she hated the writing on her hand, I don't know how she will bear that... mark," Luna finished, her voice trailing off to a whisper at the end. 

Feeling incredibly awkward Antonin extended his arm and pulled the tiny Ravenclaw into his side. "She's alive, everything else will come in time," he tried for a soothing tone, but looking at the marks and knowing now it would be permanent he wasn't sure how much faith he had in his words. After standing there for a few minutes Luna said she wanted to bath Hermione, properly now her condition was stabilised, and too tired for another argument Antonin reluctantly left the room.

* * *

As Antonin stalked into the imposing study his harsh opening of the heavy door interrupted a drawn looking Rueben from his quiet nursing of coffee. He clearly hadn't had much more sleep than Antonin, judging from the prominent dark circles under his eyes, and the tell-tale stubble around his jaw.  _ They were both far too old for this _ , though Antonin thought it was best not to say so out loud, for fear of something being launched at his head.

"Is she?" Yaxley began, as Antonin collapsed into the chair opposite him.

"She's not come around yet, but her condition is no longer getting worse," Antonin explained, pouring himself his own coffee, wishing it were something stronger. Reuben exhaled a sharp breath his eyes lightening. "Luna wants to wash her," Antonin continued, unsure of how the little Ravenclaw would achieve such a thing on her own. 

"Dixie," Reuben called, and a small elf appeared, seemingly the only member of the household that could hold up under the lack of sleep, if her bright eyes were any indication. "Please go up to help Miss Lovegood," Reuben instructed, and the tiny elf disappeared with a pop. "And you?" Reuben said, turning to regard him, taking in his crumpled form and bloodshot eyes.

"I'm ok,” Antonin replied with a sigh, taking a large swig from his mug.

Yaxley scoffed, "You need some sleep."

"So do you," he countered peevishly. "How were things at the Ministry?" he asked, endeavouring to change the subject.

"Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Yaxley retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand, before setting his mug down and staring at Antonin intently. “We need to send word to Rodolphus."

Antonin rubbed a hand over his face,  _ not the change of subject he had hoped for _ . "We do," he conceded, though the words felt like they lacerated his throat as he uttered them. He didn't want him here, didn't want  _ anyone _ else here.

"He killed her Antonin," Reuben pressed, and Antonin nodded, he was well aware of what had happened. Reuben continued ignoring his friends growing irritation, “There are only so many reasons for that, one of which, I'm assuming we can rule out immediately, since she is in  _ your _ bed upstairs."

"She is not  _ his witch _ Yax," Antonin spat darkly, incensed by the very thought.

"Maybe not  _ in that way, _ " Reuben conceded, and the air fell silent between them, the only noise, the very deliberate sips of coffee and the distant sound of elves going about their daily business.

Antonin’s head throbbed,  _ maybe it would be best to treat it like ripping off a plaster and get it all down at once? _ "Send him a note,” he said finally, dropping the remains of his drink on the desk with a loud thunk. “I'm going back upstairs."

"Don't sulk, Antonin,” Reuben scolded, deftly moving the abandoned cup to rest on a coaster, “and for the love of Merlin eat something. You'll be no good to her when she does wake up, if you're as emaciated as she is."

_ Unlikely,  _ Antonin thought bitterly; she looked as if she hadn't had a proper meal in weeks. Lestrange or no Lestrange he would be making sure she was better, Luna was right, she needed people to look after her, and he was only too happy to oblige. 

* * *

It would appear that as eager as Antonin was  _ never _ to welcome the Lestranges to his sanctuary, they had different ideas on timing. Reuben’s brief note had received a response within the hour, and their ‘guests’ arrived soon after. Antonin was on edge after watching Hermione all day, though she looked a little better now.  _ Too much time in your own head _ he thought darkly, as he prepared to leave her side. Some of her natural colouring was returning to her cheeks, her freckles becoming more obscure after days of them jutting out of her face. Though she couldn't eat, the elves were giving her a Nourishment Potion that was helping sweep away her gauntness.  _ She will recover _ , he told himself again, repeating his new mantra as he closed the door securely behind him.

Antonin had eventually managed some sleep in a guest bedroom that afternoon, but his slumber had been light and easily disturbed. As a result, he wasn't feeling particularly rested. He could have done without this meeting. He was still fighting down the desire to break, crush or kill something following the hour in the manor. He was sure at least one, maybe even both of the Lestrange brothers, would do something to push him, which would obviously do nothing to quell his simmering rage.

Antonin walked into the main reception room of the townhouse, and as planned he was the last to arrive. Both the remaining Lestranges were stood in front of Yaxley, though Dolph, in particular, looked like he should have sat down. Antonin approached them slowly, taking in what he could from their appearance, and the ambience in the room, before he spoke. They had apparently just come from a summons, and it must have been relatively private, as neither he nor Yaxley had been called. The brothers were still wearing their distinctive robes, and Rab was gripping his mask in his hand,  _ never one for subtlety _ . It was apparent that their Lord had not taken the news of Bella's demise at all well, Antonin noticed Rabastan's hands shake as they both relayed what had been said.

After clearing up the mess, they had resolved to claim Potter had killed Bella, with a lucky shot once the chandelier had come down. They hadn't mentioned that Antonin or Reuben were even there, obliviating the Malfoys to cover their tracks, neither had trusted them enough to attempt to  _ coerce _ them into an agreement. Supposedly when they had corned Draco, he had repeatedly  _ requested _ they remove the memory of Hermione's torture, in particular, the moment in which she had looked at him, Rabastan had apparently refused,  _ vehemently _ if the flash in his eyes was any indication. They had decided to tell the Dark Lord that Hermione was dead, having been killed by Bella, and that Potter had apparated away with the others, taking her body with him.

Once the emotionless retelling of the evening had concluded, the room became uncomfortably tense with the weight of what was not being said. The atmosphere reminded Antonin of going to see Snape that first time at Hogwarts, so much distrust on both sides. Whatever else, they were bonded through this, they had all disobeyed their Lord for  _ her _ .

Eventually, Yaxley insisted they all sit-down, and at the expected protests he barked 'before you fall down'. Dolph sighed before complying, with Rab finally following him, not a moment too soon it seemed. The younger man was bleeding from the mouth, and one of his eyes was already dark with bruising. Dolph was worse, he apparently didn't want to show the pain he was in, but he wasn't a young man anymore, and Antonin was confident his Lord would have given them both hell for what had transpired. However blameless their concocted version of events made them seem. They must have been convincing enough for him to buy it, they were alive after all. The older man shivered with the easily identifiable after effects of cumulative Crucios. Rodolphus had several cuts still oozing on his scalp, though whether caused by thrashing while under the Curse, or specific hexes wasn’t clear.

"How is she?" Rodolphus asked finally, and Antonin clocked Reuben slightly relax, though he could see his friend’s fingers splayed as if ready to grab his wand at any moment. 

"She is stable," Antonin answered slowly.

"She will live?" Dolph asked, and all of the men present endeavoured to ignore the break in his voice.

"Luna believes so," he continued reluctantly, and Rabastan looked up at the mention of the other girl, Antonin's eyes narrowed at him.

"I want to see her," Rodolphus stated, apparently attempting to affect a no-nonsense tone, it didn't hold much weight in his present condition. Not that Antonin would have had  _ any _ hesitation stopping him if he were fit. The older man’s sense of entitlement would do him no favours here.

"Not possible," Antonin replied, crossing his arms in front of himself, adjusting his stance so he could reach the door if he needed.

"This is not your choice  _ Dolohov _ , I have lied for you-"

"A lie you would not have had to tell, if you rabid wife hadn't been trying to kill her," Antonin interjected forcefully.

"She isn't awake yet," Reuben intervened calmly, his eyes falling over the impassioned occupants of the room in turn. "When she is, it will be  _ her _ decision."

Antonin remained locked in a heated stare with Rodolphus before the older Lestrange reluctantly turned to acknowledge Yaxley's words, finally nodding.

The tension of the previous days, months really, threatened to spill out of Antonin, and he rounded on the seated man. "Are you going to tell us what the  _ fuck _ is going on?" he spat.

"It's  _ none  _ of your business," Rabastan added before his brother could speak, his hands clenched on the seat of his chair. 

"We will talk to her first, before we tell you anything," Dolph stated and then rose onto his feet, clearing declaring an end to the meeting.

"I want to see Luna," Rabastan said crossing his arms as if daring anyone to deny him. Unexpectedly, Antonin stifled a laugh, having seen that same defiant gesture from the little blonde the night before, it was more intimidating when she did it, though he thought he would save that observation for another time. 

Reuben rolled his eyes muttering to himself, "I don't understand how I have become the appointment secretary to a couple of teenage fucking witches," he grossed, before summoning an elf, who popped up as bright and cheery as she had been that morning, paying no attention to the murderous wizards in the room, well, apart from the who she called master. 

"Dixie, please collect Miss Lovegood, I believe she is still in Antonin's bedroom, tired out, poor thing," he said, sitting back into his seat with a smirk in Rabastan direction. 

The younger Lestrange was almost purple by this point, the colour instantly clashing with the bruising on his face. Antonin excused himself from the combustible environment, not wanting Hermione to be alone, and not trusting that Rodolphus wouldn't take advantage and visit while they were all downstairs,  _ it's what he would have done after all.  _ Antonin headed back up to his room taking the stairs two at a time.

* * *

When Antonin re-entered his room, he allowed himself a moment's reverie at finding himself alone with Hermione. Her skin still looked too pale, but with all the blood gone, it didn't make him feel so desolate to look at her. He pulled the thick bed cover back slowly, to free one of her arms, the unmarked one, he didn't want to risk reopening the wounds on her...  _ damaged _ one. Sitting on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb her, he clasped her tiny hand in between his;  _ she had some warmth in her fingers now _ , he hadn't had the chance to feel her skin since they had come back.

It seemed so surreal to look at her there, weirder even than finding her at the manor; Antonin had fantasised about her in his bed for so long, though unsurprisingly it had never been like this. He reached forward to move a lock of hair that had fallen over her brow, moving the slightly limp curl into the pillows around her, he couldn’t believe how peaceful she looked. His father had once told him that the day after he was married, as he turned to see his new wife, fast asleep in his bed, he had let out a breath he had been holding onto since the first day he had seen her. She was finally home, she was finally  _ his _ . 

Antonin couldn't feel that relief,  _ not yet _ , though he could sense a distinct echo of that emotion, whatever the awful circumstances that had led to her being there, now she was he could permanently protect her. While no one else was present, he squeezed her hand before delicately placing her arm back under the now clean covers, and kissed her cheek.

"Good night Hermione," he whispered before dragging himself away to sit back in his temporary home, the chair in the corner. 

He had only just got settled when Luna padded in, inclining her head in his direction before stepping over to ‘her charge’. Antonin raked the small witch over for signs of the musing he suspected had occurred, though she looked perfectly normal apart from her eyes, they looked slightly more dazed than normal. Luna didn't say anything, Antonin was finding that she spoke as infrequently as he did, and seemed to have even less urge to fill silences. Hermione probably spoke enough for all of them,  _ when she was speaking _ .

Luna walked into the bathroom, emerging moments later in some ill-fitting pyjamas, and shuffled over to the end of the bed, grabbing a blanket and lying at the bottom of Hermione's feet. He raised an eyebrow in question. 

"I might roll over in the night, and not feel her move or something, this way if she wakes up so will I," she explained.

"I understand," he murmured, slightly enviously, kicking his legs out in front of him.

"It's not the first time we've slept like this," Luna murmured quietly, and for all the steadfast determination she had displayed all day, at that moment it was plain how frightened she had been.

Somehow Antonin knew what she was referring to; they must have been like that after the Department of Mysteries, after he had hurt her. "Are you going to tell me about Rabastan?" he inquired gently, trying to change the subject, so that his dreams would not be full of watching Hermione collapse after he shot the dark Curse at her.

Luna sat up a little from her position on the bed, her eyes twinkling in the limited light coming through the curtains. "Why would I tell you?" she asked with genuine puzzlement

"Hermione... when she wakes up," Antonin said, almost trying to convince himself of the words, "She will be worried."

Then "I will be sure to tell  _ Hermione  _ when she wakes up," Luna said challengingly, and laid back down. 

_ Was he doomed to be surrounded by obstinate females? _ Life had been a lot easier when everyone was afraid of him. "He is dangerous," he asserted.

"So are you, many would say you are more so," she countered, and Antonin couldn't argue with that assessment. "But you wouldn't hurt Hermione would you?" she continued, but Antonin didn't answer. "I don't believe he would hurt me, that's all you need to know." He opened his mouth to contradict her argument, but Luna was faster, "Before you say anything, I will, of course, explain myself to Hermione, but considering we're in  _ your _ room right now, I think she's got some explaining of her own to be getting on with first."

Antonin didn’t reply though he vaguely thought he would either want to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, or as far away as humanly possible. Just as he began to feel the pull of sleep, he heard her muffled question. 

"What did you both say to Rabastan?"

"Ask Yaxley," he replied dryly.

"Oh Merlin," Luna whispered, and he huffed out a small laugh before falling asleep.

* * *

The third day of watching over a lifeless Hermione began, and Antonin could feel himself getting restless, he had thus far been able to keep the darkness, that so often clouded him, pushed to the corners of his mind, but her lack of reaction was threatening to undo him. He even longed to be called to his Lord's side, he didn't want to leave her, but he thought he might feel  _ saner  _ after working out some stress.

Azkaban had left shadows on his psyche, some that had been immediately apparent and others that were revealing themselves over time. Rationally Antonin knew that she wasn't dead, he could see her breathe if he looked hard enough, and holding her hand, albeit briefly had helped. Her stillness and closed eyes were increasing the volume of the constant whispers of his mind, nagging voices that  _ insisted _ she would never wake up.

The result was him hovering behind Luna every waking second, snapping at her constantly as if it was her fault. Antonin knew if Hermione were awake she would have chastised him; he wondered if that was part of why he was doing it, trying to trick her into a reaction. The tiny blonde ignored him, and despite his grossing, she didn't leave Hermione's room for anything, the elves fetched her food, and they brought more potions for Hermione.

Antonin should have been livid; it didn't sit well with him to be cast aside while someone else tended to his witch. But with Luna, he found he could stand it, mainly as he was not sure, with the frustration still coursing through his blood, that he could have been half as gentle as she was.

At about midday, Reuben came in to drag him out of the room, as he had it on good authority that if he didn't remove Antonin from the house, and more particularly from Luna’s immediate orbit, the elves would kill him. He took Antonin to the Ministry, to ‘help out’ as he put it, and despite a few weak protests Antonin went, deep down knowing he needed the distraction. He hadn't been summoned for a few days which was atypical, but he assumed his Lord was too busy getting over the loss of Bella to assign ridiculous missions.

* * *

After a gruelling afternoon, assisting Yaxley with shovelling the shit that came with life in politics, even if that political structure was an oppressive dictatorship, Antonin made it back to the townhouse, regretful of his earlier desires to ‘do anything’ to relieve the stress. Even sitting by Hermione's bedside, slowly going mad with grief, was better than a day in government, he didn’t know how Yax could stand it. After making his way to a guest room to shower, scowling at any of the smug looking elves that crossed his path, he entered his room, and collapsed into the all too familiar chair for some sleep.

In the very early hours of the morning, Antonin was awoken by shouting followed by a tiny body dragging him from the chair. "She's awake!" Luna’s voice pierced the silence of the room. At the proclamation Antonin was instantly alert, his eyes seeking his witch out. When he turned towards the bed he was rewarded with the sight of her beautiful brown eyes, wide and regarding him, they were open and alert,  _ not unseeing, not dead,  _ he moved towards her almost unconsciously.

"Luna," Hermione rasped out, her voice scratchy with ill use, Antonin realised he was blocking her view of the blonde, now hidden behind him, and he moved to the side slightly so Hermione could see her friend, the Ravenclaw bounded forward.

"I'm here, I'm here," she said soothingly.

"Everyone," Hermione croaked, her eyes searching around them.

"Everyone  _ is ok _ , you're safe,  _ Hermione you're safe, _ " Luna said, reaching forward to grab both Hermione's hands in hers.

Tears started welling in his witch’s eyes, "I'm  _ so sorry _ ... Luna, I wanted to hold on…. to try and help you, but the pain… the pain was just too much," she faltering said.

"Shh shh," Luna consoled, sitting closer on the bed, and Hermione sobbed.

Not able to take much more separation Antonin laid a hand on Luna's shoulder, a moment later she turned and whatever she saw in his face must have been enough.

"Hermione, I'm just going to give you a minute," Luna whispered and exited the room without looking back.

Hermione's huge eyes fell on him, and she was quiet a beat before she spoke, "You came," she said in a choked, awed voice that nearly broke him all over again. Feeling too overwhelmed to push past the lump in his throat Antonin jumped onto the bed next to her, trying to be mindful that she was still delicate, though probably not as careful as he should have been in his haste. He pulled her body towards him, with the covers between them, fitting himself against her side.

When he felt her shoulders relax he dropped kisses on her brow, "You're alive," he breathed into her hair.

"Are you sure?" she wheezed with a distinct lack of humour in her voice. 

"Yes, very,  _ very _ sure," Antonin replied, holding her tighter. 

"Where am I?" she asked, burrowing her face into his shoulder and Antonin closed his eyes as he felt her breath against his neck.

"Reuben's house," he replied, feeling her heartbeat thudding against his chest through the slim pyjamas she was wearing.

"Where is-"

"In a minute,” he implored, “I will explain everything, but let’s just  _ be _ for a little while, ok?"

"But I," she protested.

" _ Please, Hermione, please, _ " Antonin entreated, putting his hands on either side of her face and drawing it up to meet his gaze. She nodded, and they laid in silence, her presence chasing away some of the dark clouds in his mind.

"Thank you, whatever you did, thank you for taking me away from there," she said.

"You're never going back Hermione, no one will hurt you, ever again," Antonin pledged.

Moments later the door opened, and Luna walked back in, she spoke to Hermione softly, not commenting at all on the Death Eater wrapped around her friend, which was a good thing, Antonin had no intention of moving.

* * *

Antonin walked down the stairs an hour or so later, finally feeling some of the dread he had been carrying with him for days lift, as if it was floating out of his very pores. He stopped into the small breakfast room, happy to acknowledge the return of his appetite, Yaxley was already there, pouring over a stack of parchments.

"She's up," Antonin announced, moving to take a seat himself.

His friend smiled, "and how is she?"

"Full of questions, so she as good as could be expected," he laughed, the sound seeming foreign to his ears. 

He filled his plate before glancing back at Reuben who was eying him warily, "We need to tell Dolph," Yax said without preamble, and Antonin felt the bubble of joy in his chest dissipate. 

"I know," he murmured. 

"Do you?” Yax replied incredulously, “He's going to want to come over immediately."

"Tell him tomorrow," Antonin said dismissively, reaching for some more toast. He was in no mood to bow and scrape to the wants of Rodolphus Lestrange.

"He will be insistent," Reuben warned, though his tone was understanding. Antonin could only imagine what the situation would have been like if Reuben was the one chasing after Hermione, he wasn't sure he would have been as happy to invite Rodolphus back then, as he seemed to be now. 

"Not as insistent as I am,” Antonin said shortly, “she has just woken up, she can't face it today." She might never be able to face it, his mind whispered. He hadn’t allowed himself to worry about that, but now that she was awake he would have to. 

Reuben eyed him for a long while before finally agreeing, "Fine I will tell him, but don't expect him to like it."

“I couldn’t care less if he  _ likes _ it, he will wait his turn.”


	20. Chapter 20

Looking so long for the words to be true  
But always just breaking apart   
My pictures of you

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Hermione watched from her awkward sitting position, propped up against the headboard, as Antonin retreated from the brightly lit bathroom. She willed her mind to calm; Luna must have sensed her discomfort, as she stepped forward, enveloping her in a gentle embrace, ever mindful of where Hermione’s body was still aching. Hermione had deeply missed the often silent comfort of her friend, more than she could ever say. As wretched as she felt, as scrambled as her wits were, she took strength from Luna's calm demeanour. Hermione had learnt long ago to trust the younger girl's instincts, and if Luna said they were safe,  _ they were _ , or at least, as safe as they could ever be right now.

Hermione’s mind positively swam with questions, broken up intermittently by flashes of events of at the manor. Jagged little interludes that cut into her mind like Bellatrix’s blade against her skin. She forced herself, as much as she was able, to concentrate on the present. She didn't have time to fall apart now, they were at war, and though she didn't have  _ all  _ the answers yet, she knew if she was  _ here _ Antonin must have put himself at considerable risk for her, again. _ How could she ever repay him for his constant care? How did they go on fighting on opposite sides now?  _

At length, the girls soft embrace broke apart, and Luna padded in and out of the room, filling the bath with water, then, without warning, she levitated Hermione towards the tiled room, making her gasp in surprise.

Once inside the bathroom, Hermione willed her eyes to adjust to the intense lighting as Luna steadied her. "I have to see to aim, but you can put a towel around yourself if you would feel more comfortable," she said in her normal, reassuring, serene tone, that Hermione had missed so much.

She appreciated Luna's deference to her nature; Hermione had never been one for exposing flesh, not like the other girls in her dorm, or Luna for that matter. Hermione was convinced that the Ravenclaw would have no issue with forgoing clothes in front of anyone. However, in this instance, Hermione realised the futility of such a request. "No… it's fine,” she conceded, “I'm assuming you have already had to...  _ see _ , while you were looking after me,” she breathed out, raising her chin a little. “And I think I'm going to need to talk to you, about some of my injuries," she finished quietly, hating that she wasn't sure what she would be facing. 

She felt her body sink into the warm water, her muscles relaxing until suddenly, her whole body tensed, as a horrifying thought screamed at her.

"He never saw," Luna called over her shoulder, as she fiddled with some potions on the side, tipping bits of different uncorked bottles into the tub, and Hermione sighed in relief. It seemed a silly thing to be concerned about, but she had been afforded so few dignities in the last few months.

"How bad is it?" she questioned softly, having not yet risked looking down.

"Most of it has cleaned up,” Luna answered, her voice strangely detached and clinical. “You are going to need a few more days rest for your nerves to calm down. The Cruciatus Curse has lasting effects when you are held under it for a long time. Thankfully, for want of a better word, Yaxley and Antonin seemed to know quite a lot about that particular Curse."

Knowing her protectors had suffered torture, probably regularly, made Hermione feel sick, but she couldn't help the small bead of possible comfort that formed within her. If they had similar experiences they would be able to understand; they might be able to help her find how to move forward.

Hermione gripped Luna's hand as the blonde walked past the bath, "I'm so glad you are safe," she murmured, tears forming in her eyes. 

"Me too," Luna reassured, squeezing her fingers. 

Reluctantly, and still holding Luna's hand, Hermione peered down at her body, her flesh only slightly obscured by a light layer of bubbles. It had been some time since she had seen herself naked, it wasn't something she had done with any regularity before, but cleaning and charging while on the run, with two boys, had made any appraisal a perfunctory business. Hermione inspected her thin, bony form in a detached way, cataloguing the cuts and abrasions that she now had. She had never been one to  _ enjoy _ the way she looked, but she couldn’t help the gasp that left her when she tried to take in all of her injuries. 

"The blade she used was cursed Hermione," Luna whispered. "Some of the cuts she inflicted using magic, but some... they won't ever go." She pulled Hermione’s hair from her shoulders and clipped it behind her head. 

Hermione nodded blankly and forced herself to look back down. There were several large slice marks along her torso, one considerably large one against the line of her collarbone, and then, like a bucket of ice cold water, a memory came back, clearer than she would have ever wanted it to be. 

_ The mental fog, the pain, the focused drives of the knife, the loss of dignity, the pain… Localising… on her forearm _ . 

Taking a fortifying breath, Hermione glanced down and cautiously turned her arm over. Even through the opaque water, she could see the distorted shapes of lettering over the pale flesh. Working against protesting limbs, Hermione pulled her arm out of the bath and felt herself seize up as she regarded the letters,  _ MUDBLOOD _ , carved into her arm.

"It will remain red for a while; it takes longer to seal than other scars. I believe it will heal, but it won't fade Hermione," Luna’s voice drifted over, and Hermione tried to catch the softly spoken words from the air, to process them.

Eventually, she tore her gaze away from the jagged, disgusting characters to face her. Luna moved forward and pulled Hermione's head into her stomach, circling her fingers around the wrist of the arm she held aloft, the action reminding Hermione of another time her skin had been branded, and Luna had been there.

_ Luna would always be there.  _

She laid a kiss on Hermione's wet head, "It's just a word Hermione, spoken by people that don't understand who you are, or what you are capable of."

Hermione swallowed against the rawness of her throat, but despite her silence, Luna continued, "How many people have survived that witch? Not many intact. You're better than her Hermione."

She nodded, she appreciated the sentiments, but she felt... Empty.  _ Why did it have to be that word? _

After she was soaked and gently scrubbed, Luna levitated Hermione back out of the water, helping her to dry and get into some clean pyjamas, something that seemed to fit a lot closer to her skin that the shirt she had been wearing,  _ had that been Antonin's? _

Hermione’s throat chafed, and her eyelids were heavy, she didn't feel that capable of walking, but she was determined not to be levitated again. After everything that had happened, she wanted to remain in control of her body. Her legs trembled and she felt a bit like Bambi when she put too much weight on them, Luna wordlessly wrapped her arms around her waist, and Hermione put as much weight as she dared on her small friend.

As they began to move towards the bedroom Antonin appeared in the doorway, taking one look at them struggling he was at her side in seconds, picking her up as if she weighed no more than one of the overstuffed pillows, and placing her back on the bed delicately.

"You need some rest," he gruffed.

"All I've done is lay in bed," Hermione protested, despite fighting down a yawn. She had gotten so used to ignoring the needs her body screamed at her for the last few months; it no longer seemed reasonable to sleep  _ just because she was tired _ .

"Well, you need more,” Antonin grossed, climbing onto the bed next to her, pulling her against his side. Luna came back into the room after sorting out a few more potions, handing them to Hermione and climbing onto the end of the bed. Hermione dutifully drank them down without question, and before she could move Antonin took the glass from her grasp, placing it on the side. Hermione wanted to get up, she wouldn't get better if they kept doing everything for her, but her fuzzy head made her pause.

"How are you feeling?" Luna ventured.

"Sore," Hermione answered instinctively, it was the only definite  _ feeling _ she had, everything else was just a swirl of emotions.

The doorway darkened, and Yaxley sauntered in, his imposing form moving to stand at the foot of the bed.

Hermione was grateful to whatever potion, in the pile she had been given, that relieved her throat as she forced herself to speak. "Thank you for having me in your home," she said, as graciously as she could manage. No matter what situation she found herself in, she was still her mother’s daughter. Yaxley waved off her acknowledgement, but she saw his eyes linger on Antonin's arm, where it was wrapped around hers, and she felt his emotion. He wasn't exactly disapproving, but she suspected he was less certain about her being there than he was letting on.

"What happened Hermione?" Luna asked, and she sucked in a breath, she supposed they would have to do this at some point, it was best to get it over with, especially as she had just taken a dose of pain potion. Hermione moved as much as she could, to tuck herself further into Antonin’s side, one for the comfort,  _ he felt so much better than anything had for weeks  _ but also, she was more than a little aware that this was unlikely to be well received by him. 

"We had been arguing outside the tent; tensions had been pretty high, Harry had been in a temper for days, furious since our last meeting… He was yelling." Her mind went back to when it had begun, a time that seemed like a lifetime before, despite only days having passed. 

Hermione felt her head start to ache and she raised her heavy limbs to rub her temples. "Take your time," Antonin softly encouraged, dropping his arm from its place around her shoulders to apply gentle pressure to her back, small circles spreading warmth and comfort down her spine. 

Hermione shook her head, unable to clearly remember the argument. "I can't recall everything, in any case, he said the Taboo," She felt Antonin breathe in sharply behind her, and turned to him, "It wasn't his fault." Judging by the look in Antonin’s eyes he didn't fully agree with her assessment. "Before we knew it the Snatchers were there, we ran and ran, but eventually, they caught up to us."

"Who?" Yaxley interjected shortly, Hermione noticed he had moved to the corner of the room, sitting in a chair and regarding the rest of them on the bed.

"Scabior,” she replied after a beat, “He took me first. We were leading so I couldn't see what was happening behind. Then… then Greyback," she fought past the memories of the wolf's words, and unrelenting roving hands to continue. "When we got to the manor Bella had to prize me from him. He… he was not happy."

Hermione couldn't fight the tears leaving her eyes, she didn't want to think about the next part, Luna shuffled knowingly, grasping her hands and shushing her before filing in what she could from her own perspective. "The boys came down to the dungeons, where I was, why did she separate you?"

Hermione swallowed, "They found the Sword of Gryffindor, she was… she was rabid, incoherent with rage."

"Why did you have that?" Antonin asked perplexed, when Hermione looked up at him, he sighed, understanding creeping into his expression. "That was what Snape sent?"

"Yes,” Hermione replied with a nod, “Bellatrix sent the boys down to the cells, and that's when she started with the Crucios and then the… and then the knife, I don't remember much after that," Hermione finished, feeling completely depleted by the few words she had managed. 

"I could hear you screaming," Luna muttered, almost absentmindedly. Hermione averted her eyes, seeing the pain on her friend's face was nearly as bad as feeling it herself, looking back down at the bedspread her gaze flicked over Luna’s hands, until she noticed, little cuts and abrasions covering her delicate fingers. "Luna?" she questioned.

"You wailed for so long and I... I thought it was the worst sound I would ever hear, and then you stopped, and that silence was… well, it was bad," she said, her voice thick. "Sometimes you can forget rational thought, I must have tried to get to you, and the stone wall wasn't as yielding as I may have liked," she laughed, the sound hollow and brittle, and raised her sleeve to wipe her face.

"Then Dobby appeared, he took Ollivander, Dean and Griphook to safety. Harry wanted me to go too, but I  _ needed to see you first _ . When I got up there, I got to you, and everything is a bit of a blur after that," Luna stopped speaking and moved to curl herself up until she was laying across Hermione's lap.

"I was out with Rodolphus and Rabastan, when Bella sent a note to call them back to the manor, I joined. I got there just before Luna appeared, Harry and Ron got away, Narcissa and Lucius were hit by a falling chandelier the house elf loosened, and Draco removed his mother from the room," Antonin said in an unfamiliar a monotone.

The room fell into silence, "And then what happened?” Hermione asked curiously, “How did we get away?" The quiet felt oppressive; she was terrified of whatever wasn't being said.

Yaxley's eyes met her from across the room, "Rodolphus killed his wife."

"She's… she's dead?" Every emotion possible pushed through Hermione's mind in the space of two seconds.

"Yes," Antonin's hoarse voice answered from beside her.

"But why? Why would he do it?"

She felt him shift, "They have a link to you, Hermione. We have been aware of their being _ something _ since leaving Azkaban, for some reason they seem minded to protect you." She looked up into Antonin’s face gaining nothing from his blank expression; she was convinced he knew more than he was saying. “They won't tell me anything,” he elaborated. “They say they want to see you."

Hermione wasn't sure how much more she could handle, she had her friend back, the boys were somehow safe, but Merlin knew where they had gone now the tent wasn't an option, Luna had rescued her beaded bag, so they didn't even have any supplies. She was in a Death Eater’s bed, in another Death Eater’s house, while they discussed another two of the inner circle having connections to her. 

"Now?" she asked weakly.

"No," Antonin stated firmly, "but it will have to be tomorrow."

Hermione nodded minutely, processing that he sounded as unhappy as she felt at the prospect. After all, it didn't sound like she had much choice.

* * *

Discussing the events leading up to her torture had been taxing, not just emotionally but physically, and not long after Yaxley had left to go back to the Ministry, Hermione had fallen back into a deep sleep. Hours later Luna woke her and with some gentle prodding Hermione managed to convince her friend to allow her to attempt some exercise. After a quiet negotiation, they agreed on trying some slow steps around the room, while Luna kept one hand on her waist ‘just in case’. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, Hermione was happy to be doing something again. Antonin joined them while they were on their second rotation, and she was glad to see him, though he was clearly less happy to find her out of bed. After some clipped attempts at getting her to rest, he sat, defeated, and slightly sulky in a chair.

As the girls passed around the third time Antonin darted out his arm to capture Hermione around the waist, and in her weakened state she didn't put up much protest. He pulled her onto his lap with ease, resting his chin above her hair. Not really wanting to waste her limited energy fighting with him, Hermione relaxed into the warm sensation that flooded her while in his intimate embrace. She huffed a little at his determination to get his way, but couldn't form the words to chastise him; Antonin had looked as ill as she felt when she first came to, Hermione could only imagine what the last few days had been like for him. Holding back, standing passive, was no more in Antonin's personality than it was her own, had the situation been reversed she knew she would have been unbearable. As Antonin pressed her body harder against him, shutting his eyes, Luna announced she was going to get some lunch, and made herself scarce. 

Hermione could feel him fidget beneath her, his hands coming up to smooth pathways down her arms, his head resting on her shoulder. He was clearly stewing on something, so she wasn't wholly surprised when he broke the peaceful moment. "Did they touch you?" he asked into her hair, his arms raising to band around her torso.

Hermione stilled, not just at the memories the question unleashed but at the anguish in his voice. She lifted her face to his, till they were so close their noses were almost touching, she was reluctant to tell him, his embrace may have been gentle, but in his eyes, she could see the rage he was containing. Hermione didn't want to be responsible for him going on some ill thought out revenge mission.

But Hermione had forgotten how it felt to be under the power of his quiet dominance, as he locked eyes with her she remembered what she had felt, while pinned against the dusty walls at Grimmauld Place. 

"Did they touch you, Hermione? Greyback and Scabior?" Antonin pressed lightly, nuzzling his nose against hers.

"Yes," she whispered.

His arms tightened, and he gritted his teeth, "Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice sounding like a stretched band, reedy, quavering, and ready to break at any moment. But Hermione wasn’t afraid of him,  _ just for him _ . She trailed her bruised fingers over his arm.

"Not like that… It was just… touching."

Antonin’s hands raised to her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "There is no such thing as  _ just. _ "

Hermione felt herself move forward, until he tensed underneath her, hissing a muttered curse, as he momentarily clutched his arm. Antonin stood abruptly and carried her to the bed, kissing her on the forehead as he deposited her amongst the soft covers. She made to protest, but he cut her off. 

"I have to go, but I will be back later, you will be safe here." Then he left without another word.

* * *

When a knock at the door sounded Hermione couldn't be sure if she had been staring at the ceiling since Antonin had left, or whether she had been asleep. The knock sounded again, a harsher rap, against the door frame this time, and Yaxley walked into the bedroom weighted down with bags, bags for clothing stores,  _ Muggle clothing stores _ .

"What?” Hermione blurted, confused beyond measure.

"As I am assuming you are not shocked to see me, I expect you mean these,” he responded impassively, motioning to the bags. “Clothes Miss Granger, we were sure you would want to wear something other than nightwear, at some point," he drawled.

"But they're Muggle clothes," she gestured to the bags that he had deposited in the far corner.

"Yes I am aware, I had to go get them. It would have looked very suspicious had we walked into Diagon Alley, seeking clothing for a young witch. Plus, Antonin was very insistent about something called ‘jeans’," Yaxley drew out the word as if he wasn't sure of the pronunciation. 

Hermione burst into peals of laughter at the complete bemusement on his face and tone, and he turned to face her frowning. "Sorry it's just-" she forced the words out as she recovered from her outburst, "the thought of you shopping for women's clothes, in Muggle London, seems so…  _ bizarre. _ "

"Well, while you are laughing it up, remember that I brought _ all _ of your clothes and that, pleasantly for me, included  _ underwear _ . I get the impression my taste is somewhat  _ racier  _ than yours.” Hermione paled, and Yaxley beamed at her wagging his eyebrows.

The burst of humour fled almost as quickly as it had arrived, and Hermione felt compelled to speak, while she had the chance. "Thank you for bringing me here."

Yaxley sagged, sitting down at the end of the bed. "It's fine, if you think back we've been asking to come for a while now," he said with a little chastisement leaking into his tone. Hermione sat herself up as he continued. "You should have come with us last time, when Antonin  asked," he admonished.

"I know," she replied.

He looked surprised by her easy admission, and he shifted slightly. "Go easy on Antonin; he's driving himself mad, seeing you like that, wasn't easy on him… Easy on any of us." Hermione regarded Yaxley’s dark and serious expression; it was no surprise that the man was amongst the most feared of the Death Eaters, she imagined if he were truly angry with you, he could be terrifying. His form was imposing, the set of his face, even in rest, was intimating. Strong brow, hard eyes, high cheekbones, but for right now his countenance spoke of wary concern rather that impending rage.

Hermione had long speculated over the amount of affection both men held for each other, but now she was sure, they really were brothers. "I know you don't like to be coddled, but you've got two people in this house dancing attendance on you, and you're going to let them satisfy their need to look after you," Reuben stated.

Hermione nodded, knowing he was right, she had barely been able to hold a cup without one of them jumping forward to help her. And while it irritated her, beyond reason, she understood that they  _ needed _ it, so her pride would have to take a backseat.

"Still whinge about it,” Yaxley continued, crossing his arms over his chest, “otherwise they might think there's something wrong with your brain... but let them."

"I'll try," she promised.

He smiled guardedly at her before the expression fell to a more grim line. "He's not going to let go, Granger," she faced him confused. "Whatever your plan, if by some miracle we all get through this, he's going to be expecting something from you."

"If the light win,  _ you will _ have to go back to prison you know that don't you?" Hermione questioned, unsure of his reaction. "You keep talking about not going back, but that's not an option, you must know that?" she implored.

"I know…  _ We know _ … We just can't talk about that yet," Yaxley said, his eyes fixed on his hands in front of him.

"What then..."

He stood regarding her almost coldly, "What if the light win and the  _ inconvenient _ Death Eater alliance you’ve made gets swept away to the North Sea, people can talk away their behaviour at war, how your lot preach on about the  _ greater good _ . What if your friends don't like some of the decisions you have made? It would be easy to explain it as a means to an end for you, wouldn't it? You might not think I'm very intimidating from a prison cell, but believe me if properly motivated I-”

"I won't forget him," Hermione interrupted, in as bold a tone as she could brave, staring up at the much taller man from what was essentially her sick bed. He fell silent, "You don't know _ all _ about me yet. I'm sure you've had intelligence on me, either from Draco, who hates me, or Professor Snape, who I suspect probably tried to give as little information as possible, but  _ I don't _ give up on people.

I met Harry when I was eleven, when we were both thrown into a world we didn't understand. He was malnourished, mistreated and kind of mean to me at the start, but he saved me from a troll in my first year, and I have never forgotten it. In return, I have saved his life, followed him into whatever ridiculous scheme he has hit upon, and this year walked with him into what has felt, at times, like the end of days.

You have no idea of the things I have done for the people I care for, and while I do not expect you to trust me, I will tell you that despite all of the reasons  _ why _ none of this makes any sense, what I feel for Antonin is…  _ It's more _ . Sometimes I'm scared of what I will do for him.

When you go to prison... Because you will,  _ we will win this _ , I won't forget, and _ I will fight for him. _ "

Yaxley's expression was blank, but the coldness that had been present in his eyes was gone. He stared at her for a long while, though whether assessing the validity of her words or something else entirely Hermione couldn't tell. "See that you do," he uttered finally, before moving towards the door.

"For both of you," Hermione whispered, resolved. She had feelings for Antonin that were as complex as they were plentiful, but she could not deny how much the man in front of her had done to ensure her protection. Yaxley may have done it purely for Antonin, but that didn't matter, he’d still done it, at great personal risk to himself. While she was sure he didn't fully trust her, he must have held her in some regard to have not just swept her away ‘by accident’. Hermione wasn’t blind to who these wizards were; he’d had enough opportunity to have gotten rid of her over the last few years, if he had really wanted to. He wouldn't have even needed to act himself, just not intervened like he had. She knew he was certainly capable of it.

Hermione hadn't intended him to hear her quietly muttered words, but he had. Yaxley’s progress stopped and he pivoted to stare at her for a long time, looking on the verge of speaking before the moment was interrupted by a house elf popping up to force more potions down her, their eye contact broken, Hermione focused on the little elf, and when she looked back up he was gone.

* * *

Finding herself alone for the first time since waking up, Hermione's mind began to slip into the by now familiar, rushing thoughts that signalled an oncoming panic attack. Without the presence of others to shut out the spiralling anxiety, her mind chewed over the worst of the questions hovering in the corners of her consciousness. Bellatrix was dead, Rodolphus Lestrange had killed her, he wanted to speak to her. Whatever was coming was big enough to worry Antonin, he had been trying to hide his emotions, but she could sense his reluctance.

Hermione was so tired. She couldn't remember a time when she didn't feel almost crippling fatigue. Her brain felt like warm cotton wool, thinking too hard was like wading through treacle. Just as she could feel herself succumbing to the chaos, Luna walked in, derailing the imminent and calming her racing thoughts and panting breaths. Though if Luna noticed, she didn't say anything. 

Left to their own devices her friend helped her change into fresh pyjamas and they climbed into bed together. "I'm so glad you're safe," Hermione repeated, for approximately the hundredth time. The relief she had felt in seeing Luna when she opened her eyes, had been indescribable. However, as much as she would have liked to bask in comfort indefinitely, she knew they had to start facing what had happened while they were apart. 

"I saw your father," Hermione admitted, it seemed like as good a place to start as any. She had pointedly avoided discussing it in front of the men of the house, she doubted their appraisal of the situation would have been the same as hers. 

Luna nodded solemnly. "I know… Harry told me, thank you for what you did for him.” She looked up her eyes wide, “Hermione, he wouldn't have wanted to do that," Luna said, linking her fingers through Hermione’s.

"He was desperate Luna," Hermione replied, squeezing her friend's hand in reassurance, she could never blame Xeno for his actions. "How did they even get you in the first place?"

"I got off the Hogwarts Express in London for the Christmas Break, and Runcorn was there. I'm not sure where I recognised him from,  _ but I knew _ . A couple of the others fought, but I didn't see much point. I strolled up and asked him where we were going; he looked slightly perplexed by that."

Hermione felt herself smile, imagining the odious man's face as Luna handed herself over to him without protest "What about Rabastan?" she asked, attempting for a nonchalant voice, and admittedly failing utterly. Antonin had managed to fill her in on some of his observations, but Hermione wanted to get a full picture, and an account not coloured by Antonin's evident preoccupation with both brothers ulterior motives.

Luna looked thoughtful before a small smile moved across her face. "Antonin first," she challenged.

Hermione sighed, supposing that she deserved that. "Yaxley caught us after we broke into the Ministry," Luna raised her eyebrows and Hermione let out a tiny bubble of laughter. It was hardly the average catch up after all. "I'll explain later,” she reassured. “I thought it was all over, thought he was going to call well, you know, but he didn't. He called Antonin. In some unbelievable twist, they offered help, and they came through. I don't know how to explain it, but I trust him, and I feel, I don't know, I feel a lot for him."

Luna faced her, and Hermione felt the familiar large blue eyes looking as if they could see more than what was present on the surface. "It must be a nice feeling, to have someone look after you for once?"

"I suppose,” she responded vacantly. In truth Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about it yet, she was trying to live up to what she had promised Yaxley, and let others help, but it would never come naturally to her.

“Anyway your turn," she deflected. 

Luna sighed, in a parody of Hermione’s earlier reaction, and rolled onto her side. "He showed up one day, to the cells, and he brought me food. He was quiet, thoughtful, but then, after he left, the treatment started getting better, no more jeers and taunts, and he kept visiting, kept bringing food." Hermione nodded to show she was listening, "Then he asked me questions about my life, and he seemed so interested, he didn't appear to think I was mad or loopy," she said, waving a finger about her temple and Hermione squeezed her hand tighter. 

Luna turned onto her back to stare at the ceiling. "He's...  _ troubled _ , but I … do you think I could help him?" Luna asked earnestly.

_ Preaching to the choir _ , Hermione thought to herself. "I think if you wanted to, you could do anything," Hermione pronounced solemnly, and Luna smiled at her. "Do you know why he wants?” she continued hesitantly, “Why they want to see me?"

"No,” Luna responded, but whatever it is… it's important." 

"You trust him?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," Luna resolutely confirmed, without the slightest waver. Her surety gave Hermione some comfort, she didn't want to push, but she was nervous about what was to come.

"Why?" Hermione pressed, without accusation in her tone, after all, she couldn't have explained her own trust and feelings for the men under the same roof. Luna shrugged, Hermione took that to indicate this was an ‘I know because I'm Luna moment’. It would have to do, for now, Luna had never given her a reason not to trust her. 

"You need to sleep," Luna urged, reaching to turn off the light. 

"My head is spiralling," Hermione muttered, immediately comforted by the sudden darkness, when you weren't in it alone it could be tremendously reassuring. 

"Well, it will do that," Luna mumbled.

"My arm," Hermione whispered, feeling more able to raise it now that the emotions playing across her face were obscured, though she could hear the tears in her tone. 

"I know,” Luna soothed, “It doesn't define who you are Hermione, you survived torture."

"But I am everything he fought to suppress, and now it's branded on my arm." Hermione hated herself for caring what Antonin thought, but she had been terrified since she had seen it.  _ What would he think? Would it remind him of what she was? Make him snap out of whatever crazed obsession that had motivated him to show an interest? _

"People change," Luna said dreamily, and Hermione scoffed. "You didn't see him," Luna continued more firmly. "If it had been him in front of Bella and not Rodolphus there wouldn't have been enough of her left to leave a brand on… Now shush I'll tell you a bedtime story."

Both the girls laughed, and Hermione cuddled down into the blankets, the warmth so soothing after the chill of the manor. If she suppressed the memories of the last two years, they could almost be two normal girls having a sleepover, talking about boys, worrying about exams and making each other laugh.

"Shut your eyes," Luna requested, and Hermione instantly did as commanded. "There was once a fairy, locked in a dark dungeon."

"Not a fairy  _ princess _ ?" Hermione interjected with a smirk. 

"No… he calls me fairy or pixie or… well, it seems right. I never really wanted to be a princess anyway," Luna explained thoughtfully.

"Me neither," Hermione agreed with a smile. 

"Anyway the fairy is in the dungeon, and it's cold there, she is kept in a cell on her own… there isn't much food, and there are dark wizards everywhere. The fairy is… the fairy is scared," Hermione shuffled forward until she could wrap an arm around her friend's shoulders, offering what silent support she could. "Then one day another wizard came, and he was... well, not good but maybe-"

"At the darker end of grey?" Hermione suggested.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Luna laughed in agreement. "He came to that dark and lonely place, and he brought the fairy food, clothes, and got her a bit cleaned up. He sat with her, watching her as if she were the most interesting thing in the world. When he looked at her, the fairy wondered if he could read her soul, he made her skin prickle, but not with fear, not like the others did. No, it was as if his very skin emitted light that only she could see, and only she could see because it was meant for her. 

After a while, the fairy thought she could see his soul. He showed it in flashes that let her in, and little by little she could map the complete tattered darkness that was him in her own mind; unscrambling the parchment on which his likeness was etched, ironing out the creases. 

The fairy told him stories about her life, and he told her about his family, what was left of it. One day the fairy said she missed being able to see the stars, and told the wizard all about her mother, who had taught her all the stories of the night sky. About how her father had pieced those stories together after she had gone, with the help of the fairy, both having memorised familiar fragments, re-sowing them in a slightly lumpy way, they would never sit totally right without her, but they did their best like they did with everything else. 

The fairy told the wizard that whenever she had been sad as a child, being sent home by the other children because she didn't understand something, her father would take her out to the garden to lay in the dewy grass. While curled up under the moonlight he would begin telling her the same story he did every time she missed her mum. About how the fairy had been named by him. He said that when they had married her mother had given him the whole world, and he didn't know how life could get better, and then her mother had smiled wryly at him, and gave him the moon and stars as well.

The grey wizard had looked sad when the fairy told her story and did not come back to see her for a week; she began to think he was never coming back. The fairy grew afraid that something had happened to him, something that might mean she was no longer safe, until finally, he appeared again. He brought food and sat by the bars as usual and then he left without another word.

After he had gone, when the fairy looked down there was a book on the floor, it was a simple, plain looking book, nothing remarkable about it at first glance, and she opened it. Holding it within her grasp, she thought the pages were blank but when she reached forward to touch a page ink spread through the parchment, from where her finger rested, until the entire page was saturated in black. Not understanding the fairy held the book closer, not removing her finger until a soft twinkling appeared, and every page she touched reflected a different part of the night sky.

It was beautiful and real, so very real. The fairy had only ever experienced such kindness once before, in her whole life, back when she was cold and so alone, and another fairy gave her some shoes.”

Hermione wiped her face and coughed to clear her throat a couple of times, trying to regain her composure. "Luna, after the war... It's going to be bad," she tried, she was worried about herself, and Luna too, but she had been honest in her conversation with Yaxley, she wasn't going to give them up. 

"I know," Luna said decidedly, and it calmed Hermione's nerves a little.

"Is it going to be worth it?" she questioned into the darkness. 

"I think so… I won't settle for anything less than this now; it's too late and you know it's the same for you." 

Hermione nodded, Luna was right, anything, anyone else wouldn't feel right now. Both girls were lost for a moment to their own thoughts until Hermione chastised herself for her melancholy, she couldn't worry about the end of the war yet. There was so much more coming first.

"Goodnight Luna," she said as her eyes grew heavy.

"Goodnight Hermione."

* * *

 

Hermione was gently shaken awake, rolling over, eyes blearily with sleep, to find a rumpled and worn out looking Antonin hovering over her. Light was cascading through the open windows, and she groaned as she tried to move,  _ everything hurt _ . As soon as her brain engaged the feeling of dread for the meeting ahead pooled in her stomach.

"Where did you sleep?" she asked.

"Next door," Antonin replied gruffly, before yawning animatedly. "I came home in the early hours to find two young witches in my bed, though, sadly, I was much too tired to do anything about it," he said with a tired smirk.

Hermione smiled despite herself. Somehow the day didn't seem half as foreboding once she knew he would be there with her. Though there was little time for conversation, he had clearly let her sleep in as long as possible. Once she had cleaned up, with Luna's assistance, Antonin carried her down the stairs in spite of her insisting she would be fine to walk. Hermione didn't have the energy to protest too strongly, which kind of proved his point, not that she would have let him know that. 

"They will be here in under an hour solnyshko; you wouldn't get down one flight of these stairs in that time,” Antonin needled and kissed her nose when she frowned. Hermione filed away the need to practise facial expressions that were going to work on him as successfully as her usual glares worked on the boys. She noticed Yaxley at the bottom of the stairs, make a twirling motion with his little finger at Antonin who frowned at him, shoving him in the shoulder as he went passed. She supposed, even though Antonin never seemed to listen, she was carried  _ like a princess _ into the reception room, maybe he was slightly wrapped around her finger.

The four of them settled themselves in the room, not exactly comfortably despite the soft furnishings. This wasn’t an informal drinks party after all. Antonin sat next to her on a small sofa, Luna to the other side in a comfortable chair, that drowned her, and Yaxley stood off in the corner, ever the watchful century. That left two seats in front of them, for their ‘guests’. Hermione didn't miss that they looked distinctly uncomfortable in comparison to the chairs that they were arranged in. She doubted it was in any accidental. Something Hermione was picking up on, when it came to dealing with the two men,  _ everything _ was done with a great deal of conscious thought. Where to stand, what to say, everything mapped out, all variables considered. In some ways, it was a relief. Hermione had always been a ‘heart on her sleeve’ kind of person. She read situations at face value, gave honest answers, mostly, and hoped for the best. Without their guidance and foresight she could very well have been eaten alive, so to speak. 

After an interminable amount of time Hermione heard noises in the corridor, and then, all too quickly, the two expected men walked in. Both of the visitor’s eyes immediately fell on her, though Rabastan's quickly darted to the blonde next to her. Once they had arranged themselves in the provided seats, Hermione sat up straighter, expecting either a hostile exchange, or some kind of excruciating pureblood etiquette that they would have had to sit through before they would get to the point.

Neither happened. 

No one spoke for the longest time. Instead, Hermione regarded the men as they regarded her. The newly widowed Rodolphus Lestrange had taken the seat directly in front of her, folding his six-foot, broad shouldered frame into the chair with the kind of grace and fluidity that she had come to expect of all purebloods. Her eyes travelled over him shamelessly, cataloguing him in a way she had never been close enough even to attempt before. He had dark blonde hair that he left long, the tips touching the back of his collar, and a full beard that was neatly trimmed. His soft brown eyes were surprisingly warm yet somehow unsure. His robes were neither outlandishly regal nor overly smart. Though they were undoubtedly expensive and excessively well-made, they looked comfortable; the colours too muted to be considered in any way flamboyant.

His brother was something of a contrast. Rabastan had nothing of his brother’s stillness or imposing form. After initially taking his seat he fidgeted restlessly for long minutes until he got up again, standing behind the chair, his stance wide. He was a little shorter than his sibling, his frame leaner, with short dark hair, and his features, that up to that point Hermione had only seen set into an arrogant smirk, were wary and alert.

Where Rodolphus was static, Rabastan practically vibrated with energy. As the silence continued she could feel Antonin's hand flex next to her, she didn't want this to descend into an argument, or worse duelling, she wanted...  _ no needed, _ answers.

Uncaring for pureblood protocol, or how it would affect whatever power play was being carried out by the men in the room Hermione spoke. "Thank you for helping me," she said, at last, silently congratulating herself on the steady voice she had managed. All heads turned to look at her, but her eyes were fixed on the older brother. "At the manor," she clarified and yet he made no response. Hermione twisted her hands in front of herself restlessly, "I thought…”

"Yes," Rodolphus interjected,  _ finally _ , "I… my apologies, I haven’t heard you speak before, it was something of a surprise, one I should have anticipated, of course,” he said self-deprecatingly. “I had wondered what you would sound like," his tone seemed slightly awed, which made no sense at all. 

Ignoring his comment Hermione turned to face Rabastan. "At Hogwarts, you were trying to help?" His behaviour had puzzled her since that night, and if she was forced to have this meeting, she might as well get some answers of her own. Not just for her herself, but for her friend. She looked across to Luna who smiled gratefully at her. Hermione intended to try to be as understanding about her friend’s choice, as Luna had been on her own.

Rabastan looked relieved, and the twisting of his fingers against the chair back paused. "Yes."

Impatient as ever Hermione pushed, "Why?"

The brothers shared a look, a mere moment that felt like an eternity. When their gaze broke apart, Rodolphus looked back at her, his eyes intense. "We want to speak to Hermione alone" he demanded.

"Absolutely, no fucking way," Antonin spat hotly, and Hermione jumped slightly at his unexpected volume, though she felt grateful for his instantaneous refusal. 

"Well, Yax can go at least," Rabastan countered petulantly. 

"Thank you for once again forgetting that this is  _ my house, _ baby Lestrange. You want me here, believe me, if you say something  _ he _ doesn't like,” he said, pointing at Antonin, “you'll want someone who can talk him down."

"I can handle Dolohov," Rabastan replied querulously, looking more like a moody teenager than a fearsome Death Eater.

"Once more with feeling Rab," Yaxley laughed out, apparently not bothered by the rising tempers in the room. Hermione looked towards him exasperated expression on her face, and he stuck his tongue out at her, _ I am surrounded by children _ .

"Rab, sit down," Rodolphus called softly and waited till his brother reluctantly complied, throwing himself into the chair, not taking his eyes off Reuben in the corner. "I'm not sure where to begin," he muttered.

"Try at the beginning," Hermione suggested, eager for him to get going before tempers frayed.

Rodolphus wrung his hands together in front of him, "Well, like most boys of my ilk I grew up in a quiet home,” he said, talking to his knees. “I am the first born son of my house, and that meant rules, responsibilities and formal children's parties where we were expected to keep our clothes clean and ask each other how we were, etc. When I went to Hogwarts, I met a young girl, in my year, called Andromeda Black, or Meda as I called her."

Hermione stilled,  _ what did this have to do with Tonk's mum? _

"We became best friends; she was a lot more… open minded than your average pureblood young woman." All of the men in the room snorted, and Hermione looked around at them, but they weren’t giving anything away. "Anyway,” he continued sternly, “as was often the case at that time, in our third year a marriage contract was drawn up between us, well, between myself and the House of Black, which was how it was done then.

I didn't love Meda, not like that anyway, but we would have... I think we would have been happy. I was very lucky that my father had pushed for someone that he believed I had a preference for, so I made no complaint.

Then in the sixth year Meda went home and told her family she was marrying Ted Tonks, a Muggleborn Hufflepuff from our year, a ‘plan’,” he spat derisively, “that she went through with a year after graduation. She never told me beforehand. She had been pulling away from our friendship in that last year; I had assumed it was because of petty resentment over my going along with the contract, she was always a romantic at heart. 

Unfortunately for me, her choice wasn't enough to invalidate the contract my father had put in place. The House of Black still had an unmarried daughter, and two years later I gave into the demands of my family, and hers, by marrying Bellatrix Black."

Hermione stared at him in befuddlement. "I'm sorry to interrupt you Mr Lestrange, but I don't understand what this has to do with me," she said. 

She felt uneasy hearing all of this information, though it did not seem to surprise any of the others in the room, how could it? They must have been at Hogwarts at the time, and yet, the words were clearly costing Rodolphus something to reveal. These were not events he appeared to relish remembering. It felt like she was prying, not that she had asked for any of this. The build-up was adding to her growing sense of foreboding. 

His eyes looked pained, staring at her as if begging for relief that Hermione had no idea how to give. "I never stopped caring about Meda,” he continued. “Five years later I was still covertly visiting with her. I could never stay long, and I tended to avoid her husband, but I was able to help them out, got them settled and protected, as much as I could. 

Then I took the mark, she and I… we got into an argument about it, words were exchanged that I am not proud of. She said that she didn't want to see me anymore. I didn't believe her at first, we had meant so much to each other, and I was the last link to her old life. But she warded me out of her house, even from the fields surrounding the property. If I approached her in the street she pretended I wasn't there, so after months of trying to reason with her, I stopped visiting. Though I didn't stop going to check on her; I just didn't alert her to my presence," he admitted.

"You were stalking her?" Hermione asked plainly.

Rodolphus’ lips quirked slightly, "Maybe; she would probably have called it that."

He huffed in a breath and exchanged a glance with his brother before sitting up straight, and lifting his eyes to face her, the intensity of his gaze made Hermione’s stomach flip. 

"One day I watched her walk down the road from St Mungo's and followed her, she was always around there, her child was accident prone. I was halfway up the street before I realised that it wasn't Meda I was trailing, the girl was a little younger, her hair lighter, not so much barrel waves as bouncy curls. She came to a stop outside a cafe and joined a table of women, within seconds she was talking animatedly with her friends, and her arms were flailing around her, her eyes sparkling as she smiled."

Hermione regarded him, he looked so wistful, lost in a memory, these evidently happier than before, though still tinged with melancholy that emitted alarm bells in her mind.

"She was unlike anyone I had ever seen before, just so alive so… pure. So I orchestrated an accidental meeting with her.” Hermione's’ eyes narrowed though she couldn't help but think of the man next to her. These wizards were of a kind that would do whatever they deemed necessary to get what they wanted. 

“We got to talking and somehow became friends, I was fairly  _ insistent  _ I think,” he said with a hollow laugh. “Meda's friendship ending had left a big hole and I wanted to fill it, but it became something else.”

Rodolphus flexed his fingers on the arms of the chair as if bracing himself. “Pretty quickly I found out she wasn't a witch at all, but a Muggle and her name was Jean Greenwood."

Hermione gasped, her chest constricting painfully, she couldn't breathe.  _ How could this man, this monster, have known her mother?  _ A man that hated the  _ very existence  _ of Muggles was gallivanting around London in the late seventies, having tea and exchanging pleasantries with one. She fought down the bile in her throat as she felt his intense stare, Antonin had placed a hand on her wrist, gripping her tightly, probably in some attempt to ground her, for the first time it offered no comfort. Hermione couldn't focus on the rest of the room, she was too busy trying to collect herself, but Rodolphus kept speaking. 

"She was twenty-three at the time," he continued, and Hermione's head was swimming, she wasn't sure she could take anymore.

"She was engaged to a dentist called David Granger, _ sweet, dependable David Granger _ ," his voice had taken on a sneering quality, his tone sounded bitter. 

Hermione felt another blow in her chest at the mention of her father, she wanted to snap at his hostile tone, but the words wouldn't come. 

"He was ten years her senior; she would tell me how he was warm and intelligent and everything she could wish for."

Hermione was screaming in her mind, an unintelligible stream of nonsense, anything to block out his persistent chatter.

Rodolphus coughed to clear his throat, "Overtime our… our feelings grew."

"Oh Merlin," Hermione whispered, and her head came forward to be cradled in her hands, she felt Luna move to sit on the side of her chair.

"I think we got a little swept away; I already hated my wife at that point, Jean was very close to getting married and had a small case of cold feet. It, well, it only happened once, and when I left. Rabastan cornered me; we had a huge fight. The Dark Lord was coming into power at that time; it wasn't safe for me to see her, if they had found her... I didn't think I was able to have children, by that point I had been married for five years with no heir."

The pressure on Hermione’s chest increased tenfold.  _ She must still be under torture _ ,  _ none of this was happening _ , she reasoned. She was still there at the manor, something Bellatrix was doing was addling her mind, maybe it was a spell, a hex she had been put under, something to make the pain in her mind as bad as the blade in her flesh.

"No, no, no, no," she uttered helplessly, fat teardrops cascading from her eyes, she grappled with the collar of her top feeling like it was constricting her throat. 

"Hermione I-" he tried, and it was the final straw.

"NO!” she cut him off loudly, “You couldn't have known my mother, she loved, she  _ still _ loves my dad…  _ My dad _ , David. Granger." She spat at him, angrier than she had ever been in her life. She stood quickly to rush towards him, desperate to hit, kick, or scratch him,  _ anything  _ to make him understand a tenth of the pain she was feeling, mindless of the lack of ability she had in her damaged body at the time. 

Hermione never made it to his chair. Antonin swept forward and pulled her into his chest, sitting back down with her in his lap, her face pressed against his shirt, his arms wrapping around her both to still, and comfort her. He whispered into her hair, "Solnyshko you will hurt yourself. You need to listen now; you need to hear everything," he said soothingly, rubbing a hand over her back.

Hermione shook her head against his torso; it was all she was capable of through sobs, indicating that she wanted them gone, and now. Antonin sucked in a breath, "Please, you listen, and if necessary I'll kill everyone after."

She huffed out a small mirthless laugh, though she wasn't entirely sure the words were meant in jest, and after a couple of minutes of willing her heart to come back out of her throat Hermione unfolded herself from against his chest and sat back down next to him, though he kept an arm pinned against her waist, pulling her into his side. Hermione didn't move away from him; she wasn't entirely sure she could even sit up by herself anymore. 

Rodolphus looked at her and proffered some pieces of parchment; Hermione picked them up not meeting his eyes. "I carry these everywhere," he said, and just the sound of his voice made her wince.

Hermione blinked a few times, trying to clear the residual water. Her fingers were trembling as she turned over the parchment. The first was a picture of Rodolphus and Andromeda. Hermione had never seen a picture of Mrs Tonks young; she was incredibly beautiful, poised and graceful, but so much warmer than she might have expected. As she turned over the next picture she felt her world crash around her, more so even than his words had managed. The image was of her mother, the same picture she had taken from the house before leaving. It was her as a young woman, sat outside a cafe, but this copy  _ was  _ a wizarding photo, and her hair was blowing in the breeze just how Hermione had always imagined it would. She felt her cheeks dampen as she took in what it meant. With shaky hands she turned over the last picture, it was one of her, a school photo from the third year, taken from when she had got the best grades in the last hundred years, _ but where had he gotten it from? _

"Hogwarts," Rodolphus said, answering her silent question, I went there to see Severus and walked passed that, which for some reason was in his office."

Not knowing what else to do Hermione reached forward to hand the papers back, he took them but moved his hand to grasp one of hers, Hermione jumped back from the touch instantly, like his flesh had burnt her. She tucked herself tighter against Antonin’s side, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Yaxley move, stepping towards the seat she was on, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes regarded her softly.

"I heard about you when I left Azkaban, ‘Harry Potter's best friend, Hermione Granger’. The name Granger and Hermione,” he sighed, “Jean always went on and on about Shakespeare, then your age. How many coincidences could there be? So you asked why, and that's why. So much of what I have ever been taught, what my life has been, was shaped around lineage and family, in the end everything always comes down to blood… And you, Hermione, are mine."

“Ours,” Rabastan said softly, his fingers stretched out as if he wanted to touch her. 

"There isn't any proof," Hermione said weakly, it was a thin protest, but it was all she had.

"I know….  _ I'm certain, _ " Rodolphus said defiantly. 

"How?"

"I just do, I suspected at first, and I thought about it a lot, but then I saw you at the Department of Mysteries, _ I knew you _ … you are my daughter Hermione," his eyes had misted slightly, and his voice cracked.

Hermione couldn't react anymore; she had nothing left, her body had sagged against Antonin, a column of strength, she could barely see for tears falling from her face.

"There is a way of proving it," Luna spoke quietly. "Hermione?" Luna dropped in front of her, crouching before her seat. "You have to know," she implored softly. All Hermione wanted to do was leave, but she knew Luna was right, she had to know one way or the other. She nodded, unable to offer any words. Luna waved her wand in a subtle movement and muttered a spell before pointing at Rodolphus. The room was silent as the grave. Slowly a glittering golden orb, about the size of an orange, appeared from his chest moving forward into the centre of the room. As it moved it left a shining cord of the brightest green behind it, moments later the orb flashed with a clear light, and Hermione watched, mesmerised, as a cable stretched from somewhere within and began moving towards Rabastan. Then, with a sense of resignation, she surveyed the orb as a line of the same green cord lengthened towards her.

Her mind repeated an excerpt from the Standard Book of Spells Vol. 6;  _ ‘There is a spectrum of colours that represent familial bonds, for green to be shown the two linked persons must share ‘direct blood’. Either a parent/ child, or sibling relationship’ _ . Hermione cursed her memory.

She shut her eyes, feeling them well up with fresh tears, she wasn't sure what she was most upset about, there was too much for her to process at once. Her parents were Obliviated, living in the world not knowing who she was, she couldn't talk to her mother. Had she known she had gotten pregnant after her encounter,  _ had her dad known? _

Then she thought about the crude lettering on her arm and from somewhere cruel mocking laughter bubbled up and burst from her throat. "Harry Potter's dirty Mudblood isn't so filthy after all…  _ fuck. _ " Antonin tensed next to her, but Hermione was numb. 

"Hermione, I loved your mother, more than I ever loved anyone. Not in the same way Mark did... I was too broken by then,  _ but I did love her _ . When I first found out I wanted to ignore it, I wanted to keep you safe from the people around me and from myself."

Hermione was lost now, rubbing her hand urgently against her forearm until she gasped softly as she felt the delicate scabs give way, within seconds her sleeve was darkening with blood, she didn't raise her eyes, it didn't look any different now, no purer that it had an hour ago.

She heard Yaxley's voice cut across the room, "Right I think we're done."

There was a tangle of male voices cutting over each other, but Hermione couldn't make any of them out. Antonin stood next to her, and she looked up at him, without warning he lifted her and cradled her against his chest, making to leave the room. Hermione didn't offer a single protest this time, the stairs would have been impossible for her at that moment, and she wanted, more than anything, to disappear up them.

She heard Rodolphus call to them in curt tones, "I want a word Dolohov?"

Antonin didn't even pause. "And you will have it, _ later. _ "


	21. Chapter 21

There was nothing in the world   
That I ever wanted more   
Than to feel you deep in my heart

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Antonin allowed himself an almost silent sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold of the reception room, Hermione cradled against his chest.  _ That place was fast becoming his least favourite room in the house _ . Making himself remain still, and say nothing, while watching Hermione break down was not the easiest task. She was so incredibly strong, but she was still human,  _ how much more could she take? _

Clutching the shivering witch closer, he began walking towards the large staircase;  _ she still shouldn't be this light _ , he grumbled to himself. They were halfway up the first flight before she spoke, "What now?" she said, her voice small and hoarse.

"They will leave," Antonin replied firmly, totally resolved. His first task after securing Hermione’s safety would be to ensure it. 

"They will come back, though?" she said against the fabric of his shirt.

"Yes, they will come back," he reluctantly admitted. As much as he hated it, he knew it to be true, men like Rodolphus would always want to lay claim to  _ family _ . Antonin was glad he had connected the dots a few days before, he honestly could care less who her parents were, but it would be easier for her to get over it, if he could help her process. 

Hermione suddenly seemed to become aware of her surroundings, snapping away from her misery and twisting in his hold. "You don't have to carry me-"

"Does it not make you feel better?" He cut her off her protests, not even slightly willing to budge on this.

"It makes me feel better," she admitted softly, burrowing her head back into his shoulder. Antonin allowed himself a small smile down at her, how he revelled in her taking comfort from him. He carried her up into the bedroom,  _ their bedroom _ , and deposited her in a small chair, at the side of the room, before lowering himself in front of her, gently wiping the tears that had cascaded down her pale cheeks, before pushing her hair behind her ears.

"Yaxley said he would send some food up, wait for me and we will eat together," he requested. What he meant was,  _ wait for me so I can make sure you eat something. _

Hermione nodded, clearly not ready to speak. Antonin hated to leave her, but this conversation had to happen, it was better to do it now, rather than wait till Rodolphus wound himself up further. After all, they had been working towards this confrontation since their last one, the night of the attack on Hogwarts. As much as Antonin would have loved nothing more at that moment than to blow off some of his mounting frustrations with violence, he knew it wouldn't help Hermione, and that meant it wouldn't help him.

He turned back to look at her as he reached the doorway, Hermione had pulled her legs up, so her knees were tucked under her chin, her expressionless face staring blankly out of the window.

Groaning, Antonin unwillingly walked out into the corridor, in time to see Rabastan quickly following a skipping Luna across the hall and into a room on the opposite side, the door hastily shutting behind them. He imagined the atmosphere behind that door was likely to be a good deal  _ nicer _ than the one awaiting him. Antonin would have laughed at the sight of the impulsive Death Eater being pulled around by the tiny blonde if his situation wasn't startlingly similar.

Antonin entered the doorway he had recently departed, ready to accept his fate. Rodolphus was now stood in the centre of the room, his mouth set into a grim line. Reuben moved towards him as he entered. "Can you head up?” he asked immediately, “Hermione's in my room, but she's not herself," he said to his friend. 

Yaxley nodded, "You will be ok here?" He queried.

"Yes,” Antonin reassured under his breath, “if he were going to hex me he would have already done it, it will probably just be...  _ uncomfortable. _ "

As soon as Reuben closed the door, Rodolphus turned to look at him. “I suppose you  _ finally  _ know my interest Dolohov; I think it's time I found out yours."

Antonin folded his arms across his chest, settling himself in a wide stance as he pondered the question, he wasn't sure how best to answer it. His  _ interest _ was in Hermione, having as much of her mind, heart and body as she was willing to give. Though that didn't seem to be the best response to give to her father. Their relationship may be newly discovered for her, but he suspected Rodolphus had probably been making plans concerning  _ his witch  _ for some time.

Rodolphus, it seemed, was in no mood to wait for an answer, "Are you courting my daughter?"

"Not sure I would call it that," Antonin answered flippantly, and Rodolphus' eyes retracted to slits

"Well, what would you call it? Because honestly, I can't get a handle on it. The last I knew  _ you cursed her _ , and now she's staying with you, at your friend's house,  _ so what the fuck is going on?! _ "

"I," Antonin felt himself sag, there was no point in lying to the man. He had known Rodolphus long enough to know that where matters of family were concerned, both brothers could be ruthless, and Antonin was serious about Hermione, he didn't relish having to tell someone else before he told her, but nothing about this was following a traditional path. "I have... feelings for her; we have been in contact for the last few months, while she has been on the run."

Rodolphus’ eyed him sceptically for a few moments, events seemingly playing over in his mind. "You have been protecting her?" he asked finally.

Antonin winced, the issue of his failed protection at the manor was still raw. "I have done what I can, not enough as it turns out."

Rodolphus chewed the information over, "I don't like it Dolohov," he ground out.

"You don't have to," Antonin snapped, suddenly defensive. He hadn't come this far to be stopped now, and he knew he wouldn't be. Rodolphus was smarter than that; he must have picked up on Hermione's closeness with him, he was holding more cards than the older man.

Rodolphus seemed to weigh his response, "Her staying here is  _ highly inappropriate. _ " Antonin regarded him blankly, determined not to give anything away. "I am assuming she isn't in her own room," Rodolphus continued and in spite of his earlier resolve, Antonin was worryingly aware that he may have flushed ever so slightly at the correct observation. Though he had not yet shared a bed with his witch, he wouldn’t be unable to state, convincingly, that he had no designs in that area, because he did, each more  _ inappropriate _ than the last.

"More improper than staying with two boys in a tent for weeks on end?" Antonin countered, attempting to avert the course of conversation from the sleeping arrangements in the house. Rodolphus raised his eyebrows, "I thought not,” Antonin said smugly. “Well, what would you suggest? She is hardly going to agree to go back with you."

The older Lestrange looked to be full of impotent rage, but Antonin didn't feel as if the heat of it was directed at him, it was the situation. Rodolphus had been raised to be the head of an ancient pureblood house, while he was nowhere near as austere as his father had been, he would have been used to wielding a certain level of power. Dealing with the position he was now in, finding he had a daughter he hadn’t known about, and realising he might not be able to assume  _ any role _ in her life must have been difficult. Even so, Antonin struggled to sympathise; the blond wasn't his priority,  _ his priority, _ was currently upstairs trying to make sense of the life that was in tatters around her.

"You will not take advantage of her?" Rodolphus questioned sternly, and Antonin fought down his rage at the presumption.

"No," he answered firmly, he would never do that, his plans were more...  _ worship orientated _ .

"Then there seems to be very little else for us to discuss." Rodolphus moved to leave the room.

Against his better judgement, Antonin placed an arm out in front of Lestrange's path, sucking in a large breath. "Give her time, she's angry but she is also smart, and possibly the most compassionate person I have ever met, she is dealing with a lot right now, but I believe she will come around," he said before moving back out of the older man’s way.

Rodolphus nodded, without meeting his eyes and moved towards the door before turning back, "About the attack-"

"Scabior, Greyback, Lucius, Narcissa and Draco," Antonin listed off automatically.

"I suppose-"

"Greyback is mine," Antonin answered tightly, he was working on the perfect scenario for the wolf.

"Then I will take care of the Malfoys, they are family after all," Rodolphus settled with a full smile that most who knew him would have known to be afraid of.

* * *

Antonin found Hermione in much the same position he had left her in. Reuben got up from his chair and shrugged, despite his own worry being clear on his face before leaving the room. Antonin picked the witch up, and placed her securely in his lap, frowning at the untouched food. Noticing his expression Hermione set her face stiffly.

"You told me to wait," she muttered petulantly, and he almost smiled at her bossy little face till she whispered, "How did it go?"

Antonin sagged into the chair, holding back a groan, "I think I just got the concerned father chat, for the first time, at the age of forty-three, from a man only three years older than me."

"My  _ dad _ is eleven years older than you," Hermione whispered, and he held her tighter. They remained there quietly for a while, until he gestured towards the food. Hermione merely sighed, and Antonin attempted to get her to eat something before getting aggravated at her tiny bites and gave in.

"Come back to bed," he instructed, standing up without breaking the hold he had on her, it was as much for his comfort as hers. 

"But it's daytime," Hermione protested, and Antonin fought down his irritation as much as possible. 

"Hermione, you need rest."

After some more back and forth she went into the bathroom to change, and Antonin stripped off his boots and belt,  _ he could do with a bit of sleep himself _ . Hermione emerged back into the room, and he watched her little face, still scrunched into a frown and tried not to laugh openly at her childlike defiance.

Hermione settled herself onto the bed, as close as possible to the edge, and as far away from him as it was feasible to be without being on the floor. Ignoring her behaviour, Antonin climbed in under the covers and dragged her towards him, pulling her back against his chest. He smiled to himself when, after a few seconds, she placed her hands over his, and shuffled back slightly to settle more firmly against him. It was the most relaxed he’d felt in months, and he had almost drifted off to sleep when he heard her faint whisper, "Why were you not surprised?"

"He killed his wife," Hermione spoke into her hair, moving his hand to rub her arm.  _ She was so warm. _ "There had to be a reason, not that he needed one by that point."

"I don't know how to process this," Hermione admitted brokenly, and she moved forward, turning around in his arms. 

"You _ need _ to give yourself time, and you need sleep."

She rolled her eyes, and Antonin went to chastise her, but she covered his mouth with one of her small hands. "You do too," she replied, her huge brown eyes looking up at him. "Did you get any last night?" she asked, moving her warm fingers away. 

"Not much," he said while yawning, proving her point. He pulled her tighter again, so she was resting under his chin, her mad hair tickling the skin of his arms.

"Tell me about your parents," she asked against his chest, "you said you would tell me one day, but be warned, Luna told me an amazing ‘fairy story’ last night, it will be a hard act to follow.”

Antonin smiled into her hair, “What story?”

“Her and Rabastan, how they met.”

Antonin snorted, “I shudder to think of what that entailed, but I will tell you.” He smiled at the memory of the story he had heard a thousand times, "It was winter in Russia, and that meant is was snowing, well, it is always snowing in Russia, but this was a frigid day."

"I'm not sure I would manage there," Hermione said lightly, and Antonin laughed.

"You are definitely not made for cold climates solnyshko," he moved one of his hands to trail up and down her spine, stilling to rest on the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, tucking the very tips of his fingers underneath the scrunched fabric ."But I would keep you warm," a bloom of light pink flush spread across her cheeks and he kissed her forehead.

"Anyway, it was a cold day, and my father was out with his friend running errands in town when a carriage rode passed them. It came to a stop a few metres away to pick up two women from the side of the road. As the second woman moved forward to get in the hood she was wearing fell back, and my father saw her face, he was instantly captivated by her dark hair and eyes, that were in stark contrast to her pale skin. Their gazes met for just a second before she readjusted her hood and got into the carriage. My father turned to his friend and declared that she was the woman he would marry."

"But he didn't know her? Her name or anything-"

"He  _ just knew _ , it took him a year, but he eventually convinced her to marry him."

"How?" Hermione asked incredulously. 

"Persistence," Antonin answered smugly.

"A family trait," she said cheekily, and he laughed at her before silence fell again.

"Thank you for rescuing me."

Antonin dropped his face to hers, moving his hands to each side of her face, "I thought you had died."

"I gave up," Hermione whispered her eyes filling with tears.

He stared at her confused, "What?"

"I accepted it, I knew... I thought I was going to die and I... I wanted to go," she breathed out raggedly. "I feel so ashamed of that now."

"There is no need to be ashamed of that, you survived," Antonin moved his head down to kiss her, sweeping his cheeks across hers and drying her tears. He had been holding himself back since she had woken, but now, her being so close to him, in his bed, he wanted her. She answered his kiss after a few seconds, and opened her mouth under his gentle probing. He wouldn't push her, as much as possible, he was sure that her experience was somewhat limited, or at least he told himself that to avoid adding names to his ever growing shit list. His hands moved slowly back, to her sides before slipping one around her back pinching the fabric of her top with one hand, sliding his other under at the same time to feel the comforting warmth of her skin.

Too soon he could feel Hermione tiring, she was still in recovery, and he didn't want to do anything to endanger that. Pulling away from her Antonin kissed her forehead before succumbing to sleep himself.

* * *

Antonin awoke to the pleasing sound of the sweet laughter of his witch, but to the less welcome sight of Luna sitting up with her, on the other side of the bed. He wasn't especially proud of himself for being jealous of the dreamy blonde, but he resented how close she was to Hermione. He wanted his witch to  _ need him _ when things were going wrong, to want his comfort and guidance,  _ only his _ . Ignoring both of them he pulled himself out of bed and stood, before slipping back into his boots, he needed a drink. He was aware that he was a grown man sulking, but he didn't care, he wanted to monopolise her time. He was grateful to Luna, for all that she'd done, but he wanted alone time with  _ his witch _ . Conscious, in spite of his mood, that he did not want an argument he left the room with a wave of his hand and a grunt in response to the inquiring voices.

He found Reuben's study empty and immediately went to the side, to help himself to a firewhisky. He had just settled himself into a large chair with a substantial measure when the man of the house walked in, still wearing his Death Eater robes.

"Problem?" Antonin asked congenitally, looking to focus on someone else's issues for a while.

"Yes, our Lord is mad," Reuben answered while freeing himself from the expanse of fabric. Antonin laughed, they had been talking along the same lines for some time now. Reuben looked at him reproachfully, "This is no laughing matter Antonin, I thought he was going to kill Thorfinn tonight."

"No significant loss," he uttered, his bad mood seeping into his tone.

Reuben regarded him apparently taking in his disposition, "Maybe not, but it's making the others twitchy."

"Not a full meeting I take it?"

"No, I think he's too paranoid for those since Bella. There was about half of the inner circle there; I suppose you can expect to be called in the next few days.” Antonin nodded, though now Hermione was awake he no longer longed for the distraction.

Yaxley finally shed his robe and poured his own drink, “Snape was there," he said quietly.

"What did he want?" Antonin sighed, this was not going to be something he wanted to hear. 

"He wanted to know about Hermione... He was livid, and I may have told him that she wasn't dead," he admitted.

Antonin stilled, "Why? That was her protection; she could have stayed safe if no one knew."

" _ Her people _ needed to know. The Order needed to know," Reuben said calmly, but it did little to sooth Antonin’s temper. Antonin couldn't have given a flying fuck about The Order; it wasn't like they had protected her properly up to this point. "He wants to come and see her... Tomorrow," Reuben continued, and Antonin scowled triggering Yax to slam his glass down on the table, “Do you think I enjoy bringing you this news?” he asked roughly, “we have to act as is best.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“No, it's not, it's about surviving this war, anytime you no longer fancy that Antonin, let me know and I will stop my efforts on that score.”

Antonin clenched his fists, "Fine… any more visitor requests, McNair? Perhaps The Dark Lord himself?"

"Calm down Antonin, I'm not your enemy here," his friend sighed, and reluctantly Antonin admitted the truth of that statement and sat back in the chair, running a finger around the rim of his glass. "Where is Hermione?" Reuben asked.

"Upstairs with Luna," Antonin replied, trying to school his features though he was sure his friend would have already picked up on the lingering reason for his mood. 

"So she's Rodolphus daughter?"

Antonin rubbed a hand over his face, "It would appear so."

Yaxley surprised him by laughing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry it's just what next? You pick and inappropriate damsel, you find in reality she is so much more than you expected. You spend an inordinate amount of time acting the part of the brooding prince, you rescue her from the evil witch and then, just when you are crossing the drawbridge to wake her from her enchanted sleep, two gargoyles appear... Too much."

Antonin exhaled heavily and moved to the decanter again, "Still worth it?" Yaxley questioned cautiously

"Yes," Antonin responded honestly,  _ it was _ . 

* * *

A few hours, and several more glasses of whisky than he should have had later, Antonin stumbled back up the stairs to his bed. It was really quite late now, and the room was dim, only a few candles remained burning, giving off a soft glow. Hermione and Luna were both buried under the covers, and he felt the stirring of his earlier jealousy returning. Antonin moved into the bathroom to change, determined that tonight he would sleep in  _ his bed _ with  _ his witch _ . He stripped down and showered quickly, hoping to eliminate some of the clinging smell of the alcohol, before pulling on pyjama bottoms and a well-worn t-shirt.

He climbed into bed next to Hermione, trying to ignore the mass of room he had, down to the witches being huddled up closely in the middle of the bed. He didn't bother to be quiet, or rather if he were honest, he actively attempted to disturb them. As Antonin pulled the covers over himself roughly, he spied large blue eyes watching him. "Luna, haven't you got somewhere else to be?" he moaned gruffly.

Both witches burst into quiet laughter, and he felt his irritation rising. It was the only time he could ever remember  _ not  _ having a good time with multiple witches in his bed, and it was definitely was the first time they had been laughing at him. Antonin scowled as the little blonde rolled over and kissed a still giggling Hermione on the cheek before jumping out of bed with a small thump, padding out of the door, presumably to her much  _ underused _ room.

"There was no need to be rude," Hermione said, once the door had closed, though she didn't seem to be chastising him from her tone.

"That wasn't rude,"  _ I could have thrown her _ , Antonin thought bitterly but wisely opted to keep such thoughts to himself. 

“I suppose you and Yaxley wouldn’t know, but yes that was.” Antonin bit his lip; there was no way he was apologising.

Repeating his actions from earlier, though, with a little less grace, he reached forward and pulled Hermione into his chest, curling himself around her, ignoring the little yelp she made at the unexpected travel across the bed. He moved his hands to rest on her hip, his lip curling slightly at the feel of her flannel-clad form.

"You are wearing too many clothes," he huffed and heard her soft laughter in response. Desperate for skin on skin contact, and just about drunk enough not to overthink it, Antonin circled his hands around her, and gently raised the hem of her large pyjama top. Waiting a moment, and getting no resistance, he continued his progress, raising the offending article off her body, turning Hermione on her back in the process. When he had thrown the balled up top across the room he then swiftly removed his own and leant over her, crashing his lips to hers, kissing her fervently for a couple of seconds before she started coughing.

"Ah, Antonin, how much have you had to drink tonight?" Hermione complained with a grimace, and an animated smacking of her lips. 

"Don't worry solnyshko, you definitely will not be taking advantage of me," She smiled at him, but he could see a tightness around her eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked, his ardour quelling. 

She flushed, "Nothing... I'm fine," she stammered.

Antonin moved off her, propping himself up on one arm, "Don't lie, Hermione, above all else, you're terrible at it," he teased. “Is it because of today?” he moved back further, she had been through an awful lot in the last few weeks, it was selfish to want her now. But he was selfish,  _ if not now then when? _ The war was coming to its culmination, Antonin could feel it. Though he wouldn’t verbalise it, he knew the days of having her hidden away here were limited in number.

“No, it’s not that,” she answered smiling weakly at him, "I've never done... This," she gestured between them with her hand, "before."

Antonin was convinced his brain had just shut down, "What do you mean?" he asked huskily, fisting his hand in the sheet beneath him.

"I mean I've never… You know been with… Been with a  _ man _ before." Her face was bright red now, and he felt sorry for her level of discomfort, but he needed to know exactly what she was saying.

"You're a virgin?" he qualified, and she nodded, Antonin released a shaky breath. "How far have you?"

"Kissing,” she blurted, “Do we really need to talk about this?" Hermione whispered, staring resolutely at the ceiling over his shoulder.

"Actually, yes," Antonin forced his eyes to look away from the creamy skin of her torso that he had exposed moments before, and be the more mature person in this situation, Merlin knew he was old enough for it. "I knew you wouldn't be-” he paused thinking over the right thing to say, “- _ experienced _ . But I didn't realise you would be…  _ untouched. _ "

"Is that a bad thing?" Hermione asked quietly.

Antonin swallowed, hard, not sure whether he was still reeling from her revelation or her honest naiveté. He gently trailed his fingers over her heated cheek until they rested under her chin, pulling it up, so she looked at him. "No, no of course not, it's just… I'm a  _ very  _ possessive man Hermione, and knowing that no man has touched you before does…  _ Things to me, _ but I don't want to hurt you, or scare you," he pulled one of her curls between his fingers, "so you will tell me to stop if you want ok? We go at your pace." She nodded, and he shook his head, "I need you to say it, Hermione."

"Yes,” she responded, “I will tell you."

Accepting that as his green light Antonin dropped back over her again. Lowering his torso to cover hers, he fought with himself to go slow, to relax her, and laid soft kisses on her mouth before trailing a path down her neck, stopping at the gentle swell of her breasts, accessible from the top of her green satin bra. He languidly brought his hands up her sides, revelling in the warmth under his fingers before raising her from the bed lightly, to unfasten it from her, softly pulling it from her body when the clasp sprang free.

Antonin arched back to look at the skin that was exposed, "You are so beautiful my Hermione," he whispered reverentially, he couldn't believe that they had got here, to this moment.  Years he had waited, and not until that moment in the cafe had he started to think that she would ever be here, and now she was. He returned his weight on top of her, sucking on the dusky pink nipples he had imagined more times than was appropriate, and delighted in the fact that his rather vivid imagination had not done her credit. Hermione lightly gasped as he moved to her other breast and Antonin smiled against her skin, ready to catalogue every gasp and mewl she made. He wanted her responsive to his touch, to find out what she liked and disliked.

As his movements became more frantic her hands glided into his hair, pulling on the damp strands at the back of his neck, he moaned appreciatively, beginning to lick a path further down, it was a moment or two later when he accidentally nudged her forearm, and Hermione stilled.

Antonin looked up at her, through the haze of lust, and saw that her shoulders were tense and her eyes radiated strain. "What's wrong?" he questioned lightly.

"My scars," Hermione whispered, and it took Antonin a second to join the dots, when he did he sat back onto his haunches, gripping both of her wrists and moving her to sit up in front of him. He lowered his gaze to look at the word that had been ‘applied’ to her skin during torture. He hadn't so much as glanced at it since that first night they were back; he had assumed Hermione wouldn't want to talk about it, honestly,  _ he didn't want to talk about it.  _ Seeing what had happened to her still filled him with rage. Antonin had been almost mindless at the Department of Mysteries when he saw the angry bruises lining her throat; this was so much worse. He didn't want her to see that, but he realised, as she sat looking up at him, her body language radiating discomfort, that he had made a mistake. He hoped by ignoring it would not cause her further pain, but it would appear that she wanted to address it, so that was what they would do. He pulled on her arm slightly and bared the words to his closer gaze.

"Hermione, this means nothing to me, the word means nothing to me. It makes no difference to how I feel about you, or how beautiful I think you are," Antonin said firmly.

Hermione peered up at him through tear soaked lashes, "It's so ugly, though," her voice croaked.

Antonin let go of her hand and spun around, so she was facing his back, "You see this one here?" he said, gesturing to his shoulder. There was an ugly patch of skin, about the size of his palm, "That's from where Yaxley set me on fire during a practise duel in the sixth year." Hermione reached forward to touch it, running her hand over the uneven surface delicately. "The prick didn't think to mention he'd been  _ experimenting _ with cursed fire, took three people over a minute to put it out, and by that time the skin underneath was unsalvageable." Antonin turned back around to face her again, "and that's not even the worst of it, I've seen a lot of scars, and yours is a horrible reminder of what happened to you, but that's all, it doesn't change who you are."

“Luna said something similar.”

Antonin groaned, “No talking about Lovegood when we are naked.”

“We’re not naked,” Hermione challenged shyly.

“We will be,” he promised darkly. 

Hermione looked thoughtful for a second before she surprised him totally by jumping forward to kiss him, her hands wrapping around his neck so tightly that their bare chests pushed together. Antonin carefully lowered her onto her back, without breaking their kisses and moved his hands rhythmically around her torso before gently tugging on her pyjama bottoms. She raised her hips slightly, and he took the opportunity to remove them.

He looked down to marvel at the sight of her; she was so petite and seemingly fragile but so strong and lush at the same time, Antonin felt almost uncomfortable in his desperation for her which was not helped by her small fingers moving down his chest to pull at the waistband of his own pyjama bottoms. He stood from the bed, staring intently at her and pulled down the trousers taking his boxers with them and, throwing them from his body. He watched with a heated stare as her eyes widened at the sight of him before she blushed and looked away rapidly. 

In slow, deliberate movements, Antonin climbed back up onto the bed latching his mouth to hers, waiting to feel her relax again before gently moving his hand down her body.

"You are so soft," he spoke against the swell of her abused lips, trailing his mouth to her ear, whispering a continual flow of endearments as his fingers dexterously navigated the hem of her green satin knickers, circling the delicately stitched lace surrounding her thigh, before gently settling between her legs and sliding the tips of his fingers under the fabric. He felt her gasp at the intrusion, and pulled away from her ear to feast on her collarbone and shoulder. Antonin tormented her flesh until she began to writhe underneath him, her pupils dilating as her breaths became soft pants, only then did he slip his hands to the waistband and pull the fabric slowly down her legs.

"You are so dazzling," he crooned while sat back on his haunches reaching forward to part her legs a little further till he could rest comfortably between them.

"Are you OK?" he questioned, needing to hear that she wanted this as much as he did.

"Yes, err, I think so," Hermione said falteringly, her skin was flushed, and a faint line of perspiration moved across her brow.

He kissed her again, resting his body over hers and luxuriating in the feel of her supple flesh against his. Without breaking himself away, he shifted to the right enabling his fingers to trail back over her stomach, ghosting a barely there path down past her hips. When he reached centimetres away from where he wanted to be Hermione let out a little-frustrated cry, and he swept his fingers onto her, moaning himself when he felt how ready she was. Antonin worked her until she shuddered beneath him, almost losing his own composure as she writhed and clawed against his skin.

Antonin rested his heated forehead against hers as she calmed down before looking down at her face. "This will hurt a little, to begin with," he said roughly, and rested a hand on her stomach muttering a charm, watching as it lit blue for a couple of seconds. Without waiting any longer he slowly entered her, being as mindful as he could to her possible discomfort. When he was fully within, he peppered her slightly pinched face with gentle kisses, attempting to run the significant dates of the Goblin Revolution through his head to stop himself from thrusting forward like his mind was screaming at this to do.

"Antonin," Hermione whispered, and he winced at hearing her say his name in such a breathless voice, mentally filing away the moment, he dropped his face to look at her, "Please move."

"Oh thank Merlin," he wasn't sure how much longer he would have been able to remain still. He began thrusting into her then, almost with total abandon, he had waited  _ so long _ to have her; her much smaller body being dominated by his form was totally intoxicating. He felt a surge of masculine pride as breathing became more laboured and a flush broke out on her cheeks

"Antonin… Antonin... I... I-"

“It’s okay,” he whispered into her ear before pulling himself up slightly so he could massage her, pushing her closer to the edge, as her eyes widened he could feel her fluttering around him. He leant forward and spoke directly into her ear, "Let go solnyshko, let go."

He felt her become almost impossibly tight around him and shuddered, if watching her before was intoxicating, seeing her come while he was inside her was almost maddening. "Fuck Hermione," he yelled before he gripped her hips tightly, slamming into her twice more before spilling inside her.

When his eyesight returned, Antonin gently moved to lay next to her, tucking her into his side and laying soft kisses on any skin he could get near enough to. He watched her in amazement until her eyes began to grow heavy, then with increasing amusement as she tried to fight the call of sleep. He moved to be eye level with her, speaking in a heavily accented tone, "I love you solnyshko, I can guarantee nothing that will happen, but I can give you that."

Hermione was suddenly alert, her eyes as big a saucers "Antonin I."

"Shh go to sleep we will talk in the morning."

Hermione pulled his chin down, "No I need to say this now... I love you too Antonin."

He felt his face split into a wide grin as she settled against him, as he was once again succumbing to sleep by her side, he felt the frayed edges of his mind start to knit together, she was safe, and she loved him, everything else they could work out along the way.

* * *

When Hermione stirred awake, she attempted to move, testing out her limbs and clenching her fists. Like the day before her body ached all over, though the pains felt different this morning. She blinked a couple of times and memories of the previous evening came rushing back to her. As she rolled over she found a sleeping Antonin Dolohov tucked under the covers, the downy quilt wrapped high around him, with only his closed eyes exposed. He looked infinitely younger in sleep; she supposed he would not care to be told how adorable he looked. Snuggled up into the bedding. Hermione shook her head at the absurdity of the situation; she was curled up in bed, recuperating with one the Dark Lord’s inner circle. She belonged in St Mungo’s and yet she wouldn't take it back. She had meant what she said; she loved him.

Hermione smiled to herself, remembering the previous night, how scared she had been, how gently he had treated her. She reached forward to brush some hair off his face, and only had time to dimly register the flickering of one of his eyes before he had grasped her wrist and pulled her into him. "Morning Antonin," she laughed out, forced to mumble as her face was pressed against his bare chest.

"Morning Hermione," he grumbled into the covers.

"We need to get up," she said brightly, clearly much more of a morning person than he was. 

"Why?" he huffed, his accent even thicker than it had been the previous evening

"You mentioned something about another visit today," she said softly, hoping to jog his memory.

She felt more than heard his sigh. "Snape is coming,” Antonin admitted reluctantly, “he knows you are here and has _ demanded _ to speak to you," he complained petulantly. 

"Ah..."

"Yes _ ah _ … in a moment, though, we don't need to get up yet," he moved forward, pressing her more firmly against his skin. As silly as it seemed Hermione was nervous about him seeing her naked, in spite of their  _ activities _ . She assumed Antonin had no such issues as he ran a hand firmly over her bum.

He kissed her shoulder as his hands kept moving, “I meant to say to you last night, I greatly approve of your underwear choice, though obviously, I prefer you without it,” he mentioned as he pointedly rubbed a palm against her breast. “Though I confess it was not exactly what I would have expected, I thought you might have been a bit too practical for green satin."

Hermione had to hold a hand over her mouth to smother the giggles that threatened. She had wondered how long it would take for him to mention them. "That's true; _ I am, _ if you remember  _ you _ sent Yaxley to get me new clothes when I arrived here," she responded in as innocent a tone as possible.

She felt Antonin tense around her. "I'm not sure whether to thank him or kill him."

Hermione laughed, "Maybe let's keep it to ourselves that you have seen them until you can decide.

Antonin laughed into her hair "Maybe."

* * *

Hermione was glad that Yaxley had not instructed Professor Snape to wait in the front reception room, she had experienced enough revelations there to last a lifetime, it made the idea of  _ any _ conversation being held in there oppressive. Instead, Hermione entered the lightly furnished, bright sunroom at the back of the property to find her old Potions Master skulking in the corner like the vampire that the younger children had often accused him of being. He looked so out of place in the bright room that Hermione almost felt sorry for him, _ almost _ .

She moved closer and sat in a chair in the centre of the room, before setting about pouring teas from a tray that had been left by one of the elves. After a lifetime of viewing them as put-upon servants it had been quite an eye opener to deal with one up close that wasn't totally mad, and find how demanding and exacting they were. Hermione found it was easier to go along with what they wanted, and want they wanted wasn’t liberation.

As she started to pour her Professor moved further into the light, if it were possible he looked paler than the last time she had seen him, evidently life as the headmaster did not agree with him. He sat softly in the chair in front of her and took the cup she proffered him without comment.

"I'm glad to see you are  _ alive _ Miss Granger,” he started sarcastically, “though I can see that no matter the treatment you have no doubt been receiving here, you were not well a long time before your… ordeal," he drawled, and Hermione realised, in spite of herself, that she had missed his voice. 

She thought of how to phrase what she wanted to say in the perfect Slytherin way, how she could acerbically and eloquently tell him to  _ shove it up his arse  _ without betraying a single emotion on her face. But she was Gryffindor to a fault, and she wasn't recovered enough yet to go an entire conversation exchanging thinly veiled barbs, especially when she was so outclassed. She wrung her hands in front of herself for a moment.

"Speak, Miss Granger, before you combust with the need to do so," he commanded, as he took a sip of his tea, raising a single brow in challenge. 

Hermione sagged but glared at him at the same time, "Why have you been helping?"

The professor looked up at her, apparently not having expected that response, Hermione felt a small thrill at having been unpredictable, and he frowned at her. "What no curses, no hexes? No shouting the odds at me about  _ my crimes _ ? You do disappointment me Miss Granger, where is the  _ little lion _ Minerva raised?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, "I'm giving you the opportunity to tell me  _ your side _ … something seemed off, I've thought that since I found out. Why would you have done it  _ then _ ? Why did he not fight back? I'd like to hear your side before I come to my own conclusions."

Professor Snape stared at her unblinking for several moments before clearing his throat, "There was a time, Miss Granger, when I believed you to be one of the most predictable students I had ever taught." Hermione opened her mouth to gripe, but he glared at her, silencing her words. "Yet in the last couple of years, you have made some of the most miraculous choices… I find that I may have been wrong in my estimation of you," he huffed out a breath and set down his cup. "Well, I suppose there is nothing to be gained from subterfuge any longer… I pledged my allegiance to Dumbledore a long time ago."

"Why kill him then?" she asked plainly.

"A vow-"

"A vow you made to protect Draco?" She interrupted, and he fixed an icy glare on her, Hermione was forcibly reminded of the night he came to help with her parents. "Sorry,” she whispered, “Harry overheard you," she said contritely.

"Yes,” he replied with a sigh, “I made a vow, but I also made a promise to the headmaster. His arm was cursed when he tried to put on Gaunt's ring, I managed to stop it spreading but it would have eventually killed him, he asked me to… to do so instead, to save Draco's soul."

"What about your soul?" Hermione asked as loudly as she dared.

The headmaster’s hands shook for a mere moment before he placed them on his kneecaps to steady them, and he exhaled a disbelieving, shaky breath. "I believe you may be the first person enquire about my soul for some time Miss Granger."

"Hermione,  _ please, _ " she encouraged.

He was still for a second, and she observed as he seemed to pull himself together. "Such informality is  _ unnecessary,  _ Miss Granger," he said with derision.

"Fine have it your way," she snapped back, and she thought she could see him suppressing a smile at her remark. 

"Dumbledore wanted to be spared the  _ indignity _ of death via Bella or Greyback, he didn't relish the idea of falling into either one of their hands, something you were not protected from," he said, and Hermione watched his fingers flex on his knee caps.

"But why tell no one?"

"He felt it would solidify my position as the Dark Lord's servant, and enable me to best protect the children remaining at the school as much as possible."

"But you're still on our side?"

Professor Snape tilted his head at her in a manner not dissimilar to one he may have used during Potions lessons, assessing her, but for the first time, his eyes were not totally cold. "I was called to a meeting following the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries; the Dark Lord was  _ furious _ with the failure, and the subsequent arrests of several persons who were of use to him. I came back to the castle, a long time after you had returned, to learn that a few of you had been seriously hurt. I went to the Hospital Wing to help where I could.

Poppy is a good medi-witch, excellent even, but she is not a healer of the same level of proficiency and experience as you would find in St Mungo's, and she has had little to no experience with the darker end of the magical spectrum."

"Why did you want to help? You made no secret of the fact you hated us."

"You are, or at least  _ were _ , a child under my care as a teacher, was that not enough reason?" he snapped, and Hermione placed her hands under her thighs and tried to force herself to remember not to interrupt lest he stop sharing.

"In any case, Albus intercepted me, said it was more important that he get the information regarding the meeting as quickly as possible. I protested, Poppy had relayed by that point that your condition, in particular, was considered very dire indeed. Albus plainly stated that Harry was well and implied that the rest of you were disposable, as long as the boy remained safe, not in so many words of course."

Hermione felt her heart sink, she had long suspected herself of having little value to certain members of the Order, and Dumbledore in particular, but to have it confirmed was still a little winding.

Professor Snape eyed her, plainly seeing her reaction like he always seemed to read every one. "I have been disposable to the war effort for over half my life Miss Granger, and as a young man, I stood by while the only person I had ever cared for was deemed the same. Something clicked in my mind that night, and I felt I had to do something for you, just one thing that would be a sort of retribution I suppose, and so as soon as I heard about the planned attack on your parents, I took my chance.

Also, vainly, with Dumbledore later talking through his plans to have me kill him to secure my place as a spy, I thought it would be nice to have at least one person that when they had more of the pieces, they might have been able to work out some of the whole puzzle."

Hermione was completely stunned for a few moments; it was probably the longest she had ever heard her former professor speak. She looked to find him staring at her covered forearm, and she instinctively pulled it towards herself as he swallowed thickly. "I heard about what happened,” he said in a softer tone, “Yaxley gave me some information, I should point out he was fairly reluctant."

"I thought as much," Hermione said with a slight smile, she knew Yaxley’s feelings concerning her were not yet settled, but she was grateful for his protection in any case. 

"You should have told them I sent it." Hermione looked at him blankly, not understanding his meaning. " _ The Sword _ Hermione,” he clarified, “you should have told them I sent it to you".

"I couldn't do that," she said shaking her head.

“Why ever not?” he demanded.

“Because, professor, you have earned my loyalty, whether you want it or not. I would have no sooner given you up than I would have Harry or Ron. You say you have been disposable to the war effort, but you have been _ imperative _ to both our survival and the success of our mission for months.”

They fell into silence for several seconds until he seemed to snap out of it. "You should know that I have gotten word to Potter that you are fine, no doubt he is unable to function without you. I do hope you'll permit me to be present when you meet up with him again after you have spent the week in the home of a Death Eater, he does have such a charming view on the black and white nature of the world."

"My current location is the least of my worries at the moment," she replied tiredly and he raised an eyebrow at her, Hermione barely hesitated before carrying on, everyone would know soon enough in any case. "It would appear that I'm Rodolphus Lestrange's half-blood bastard."

Snape's eyes blew wide for just a second, but it was long enough for her to ascertain that in spite of his general perceptiveness, he had not expected anything of it. "Well,” he said finally, “that explains some of the strange reactions they have had to you over the last few months," he said in his typically understated manner. 

"Yes, but please no decelerations of pity professor,” she said with amused sarcasm, and he gave her a half-hearted scowl. “We have other things to talk about; we are nearly done with the... _ items. _ "

The headmaster leant forward, his thin arms resting on his knees, "What do you have left?"

"Snake and Cup," she answered immediately.

"You have been busy," he pronounced slowly, but there was a hint of pride in his tone that Hermione was embarrassed about how much she enjoyed.

"Antonin is taking care of Nagini and I have a plan for the cup."

"What have you told him about it?"

"That we have a way to make him mortal."

He nodded, "He will need to know more, it cannot be destroyed by  _ conventional methods _ ."

As if talking about him had summoned him, or more likely as if he was listening in, Antonin appeared through the door, pointedly not knocking, and walked towards where they were sat.

"Hold off on your plans for the snake, you need more information,” Snape said immediately, looking no happier to see Antonin than he was to see him, “Come to see me first this evening, I'm coming with you," Professor Snape continued, his eyes fixed on Antonin coolly. 

"We don't need your help," Antonin responded sharply. 

"Yes you do, there are things you don't know."

"Why you?” Antonin argued, “Hermione could tell us, you need have nothing to do with it."

Professor Snape stood, his robes billowing around him as the temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees. "I believe you were at the meeting when that creature  _ ate _ my colleague… She was a pain in the arse of a woman, but she didn't deserve that."

Antonin reluctantly agreed.

Hermione ran through her mental count as had become a habit,  _ five down one to go. _


	22. Chapter 22

Despite the gravity of the situation at hand, Hermione found herself suppressing laughter as Professor Snape, Antonin and Yaxley discussed the best plan for removal of the snake. After  _ increasingly _ volatile comments from all involved, her sheltering Death Eaters agreed to meet the headmaster that evening. It would be fair to say that  _ none _ of them were happy at the conclusion. Hermione had always felt that her Professor's tone of address, to her as a student, had been condescending, sarcastic and on occasion, downright rude, she wondered if it was a poor reflection on her character that she found it  _ immensely _ comforting to discover he spoke to  _ everyone _ like that. In fact, in light of the way he conducted himself that evening, with Yaxley in particular, his classroom taunting suddenly seemed rather tame.

Through everything that had happened, Hermione had come to respect Severus Snape, and like anyone that moved into her sphere, she was determined to keep him there. If by some miracle they all got through this, he was remaining in her life. She began to suspect that he needed her in some way, whether her survival had somehow got tied in with his own sense of redemption, she wasn't sure, but Hermione was determined to have her way. She assumed Antonin would be unhappy about her conviction, but honestly, she thought Professor Snape would probably be more put out, so it was a good job she wasn't asking either for their opinions.

In the last couple of days, Hermione had felt her strength returning, the fatigue in her limbs was lifting, and under the continued tender care of both Luna and Antonin, she was beginning to feel some semblance mental peace as well. Hermione didn't expect to feel  _ better _ , not for a long while, she doubted any of them would ever fully recover. You could have filled the ark with the amount of anguish the people in this house were repressing. Antonin and Reuben drank far too much, their tolerance for alcohol, which Antonin used as a part way excuse, only made her fret more. As much as Luna seemed to be coping she had told Hermione enough about her time in the cells at Malfoy Manor, for her to be  _ sure _ her friend was likely quashing a lot of her feelings.

Being of sounder mind and body meant that Hermione was able to not only seek out quiet places, but to also enjoy the alone time without triggering a panic attack. Hermione was a person that liked to get away from everyone, to work things through. When she was at Hogwarts, her sanctuary was the library, her place of solace whenever she had an academic puzzle she couldn't solve. When it came to emotional unrest she ran, for all her bravery when faced with mortal peril, there were scenarios she could not confront. Hermione would risk her body, and even her mind, _ but her heart? _ It was, she felt, her weakest area, and undoubtedly where she felt most exposed.

The revelations laid at her feet about her paternity were beyond her understanding, she had so many questions, and at the same time felt unable to voice any of them, there were numerous factors needling at her, and she couldn't talk to her mum that was the biggest weight on her heart. Hermione wanted to know…  _ why _ . But it was so much more than that. Being a Muggleborn witch was as much a part of her identity as her wayward curls and know-it-all tendencies. She had fought against the stereotype and was  _ proud _ of all she had achieved; she was the anomaly, the fly in their soup, if Muggleborns were  _ supposed _ to be so dirty, how was she better than them?

Except she wasn't.

Would people that had shunned her now come forward? Would they want to acquire her for her mind, because she was somehow purer? Would the response to her change of blood status be a passive one? Now they had an explanation for her ‘brilliance’. Hermione felt like all of her hard work; her struggle had been for nothing.

She lost herself to her thoughts in the warm sunroom, and left alone her mind fluttered back to Rodolphus and Rabastan,  _ her family _ . Two of the most infamous Death Eaters were blood-related to her, how would people take that news? Was she to be welcomed by those who had hated her, only to have her friends turn their backs? 

Hermione wanted to hate them, to hate Rodolphus at least, but she couldn't, she cursed herself for her weakness, but flashes of his broken face crept up on her at times, her mind was determined to make him human. Neither brother appeared to have had a peaceful existence. That was the thing she never comprehended about purebloods, they all believed their way of life was far superior, and yet they were all so bloody miserable, so damaged,  _ when did it start? _ Even Antonin and Yaxley, who by their own accounts had loving parents and happy homes, were both holding onto so much rage it was a wonder they could function.

Thoughts of Antonin made a blush creep across her cheeks; it had been unexpected and somewhat wonderful to be with him  _ in that way _ . Hermione had been naive and fearful, and he made her feel desired. When he looked at her she felt whole, and beautiful. Antonin had shown patience that she hadn't known he possessed, and a kindness that she had longed for without ever knowing it. She wanted to talk about it in some way, finally understating the hours Lavender and Parvati had devoted to what she had once referred to as mindless chatter. It was at times like this when she missed Ginny. Her friend's frankness was legendary, and Hermione was sure that, however difficult it would have been to initiate a conversation on sex with the redhead, she would certainly have felt any residual nervousness reduced following it.

She could speak to Luna she supposed, though it was questionable whether she would get a straight answer. Despite being a year younger, Luna always came off like an old soul, if Hermione broached it with her, she would probably spout something about being at one with the universe and Hermione would be none the wiser.

Hermione poured herself another cup of tea and curled her legs underneath herself, cradling the dainty cup in her fingers, letting the porcelain warm her palms. She would have to speak to Luna about Rabastan she realised. Fairy tales and intertwined hearts aside, she had seen the way he looked at her friend, Hermione couldn't determine if the savagery in his intense gaze indicated that he wanted to devour or be devoured, but either way she did not imagine their relationship would be limited to handholding and romantic platitudes for much longer. She would have to speak to him too she decided, putting aside their issues, and hear with her own ears what his intentions were. Hermione trusted Luna's innate sense more than she trusted her logic but this was still her  _ dearest friend, _ and he needed to know what would happen if he hurt her. Azkaban would look like a seaside holiday camp in comparison.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she had been sat staring off into space, when Antonin came looking for her, he appeared slightly flustered like he had thought she was missing. He didn't trust her yet, she knew that, though for all of his astuteness she wasn't sure he realised it. It was revealed to her in the way he reached for her in the morning, not releasing a breath until his searching hands found her flesh. Or in how he came up the stairs at night, slowly opening the bedroom door as if expecting to find the room empty. It was a sensible fear; Hermione had decided if a completely unfounded one. Even if she knew she should leave him, she couldn't anymore, not without leaving a portion of herself behind. So Hermione didn't tease him when his face relaxed as he spotted her, despite the fact she hadn't moved since he last saw her. Antonin approached her chair but did not sit.

"What's wrong?" she asked seeing his weary look.

He sighed, "You have  _ visitors,”  _ he said with a shrug that she didn't believe, watching the way his fingers bit into the chair back.

"Lestranges?" she asked tentatively, and he nodded. "Do I have to?" She hated that she sounded like a child, but she was approaching the very limit of her emotional capacity.

"Yes… Hermione they're not going to give up," Antonin said, but she could hear his reluctance, he didn't want them here anymore than she did. He reached forward to take one of her curls between his fingers and looked at her softly.

"How do you know? Any lost children you're trying to bring back into the fold?" she asked her tone was sarcastic, but he ignored her mood.

"None of us are wired like that; he'll keep coming until you see him, and then until he can find a way of getting what he wants."

Hermione dropped her head into her hands, "Fine, can they come in here? Oh, and where is Luna? I would like her to be here."

"She's in the garden, something about how the way the plants are spaced is  _ offensive _ to some creature or other, so she is instructing the elves on how to correct it."

Hermione suppressed a smile at Antonin’s befuddled expression, "And Yaxley is ok with that?"

"I'm not sure he had a choice, he requested coffee this morning, and all of the elves were in their gardening garb, for some reason they all treat that girl like some high priestess."

"As they should," Hermione laughed.

* * *

Her mirth failed her a short time later, when the Lestrange men entered her retreat. Luna had opted to sit in the same chair, it wasn't big enough for two people, but the blonde entered the room and shifted Hermione till she could dangle her legs over hers, like some kind of human emotional shield. Hermione appreciated the gesture, despite being mindful of the scowl she could see fall over Antonin's features.

Yaxley wasn't here this time; Hermione wondered if it was because he was done finding amusement in the dog and pony show that was her life, or whether he was using the opportunity, while Luna was distracted, to recolonise his elves.

Hermione looked intently at Rodolphus Lestrange, trying to detect some evidence of paternity from his features, nothing particularly stood out, and yet she didn't doubt the spell that Luna had cast. When they were both in the room, she could  _ feel it _ . The awkward silence made Hermione hyper-aware of herself, and while looking at the wizard, she could perceive a soft, low-level hum in her person, almost as if her blood was calling to his, recognising their bond. She had read once, in a huge and dusty old tome, from an almost abandoned section of the library, about familial magic. Hermione had been covetous at the time, learning about this strange and innate power, she had felt deprived, knowing she would never have any access to a  _ greater  _ understanding because of her birth. Now that world was open to her like the old adage said, you should be careful what you wish for.

Compartmentalising was a way of life for Hermione, and right now that was what she needed to do, her personal mess would wait, she had sat in ignorance for this long, the focus now had to be on what was really important, the war and Harry. Though the level of urgency didn't make the situation any less cumbersome, this conversation would be painful to start; it would appear that even in the  _ highest _ pureblood circles there was no etiquette guide on how to converse with your recently uncovered daughter, of unfortunate blood status, while her murderous…  _ well, whatever Antonin was _ , looked on.

They engaged in light conversation, him asking after her health and a few other short enquiries that he seemed to labour over, before blurting them out. Hermione found herself thinking that she liked that Rodolphus didn't seem as ‘put together’ as she was anticipating, and then a flash of her father came into her mind. David Granger, with his dark, wiry curls that she had always thought of as so like her own, and she would feel burning guilt. Eventually, she couldn't stand the talking around the houses anymore. 

"This," she waved her hand between them, "What does this mean for the war? What do you want from me?"

If Rodolphus was taken aback by her directness he did not show it, in fact, he looked almost relieved. "It means that I will do  _ everything  _ within my power to keep you safe," he answered, and Hermione sat back in her chair slightly taken aback by his forthrightness.

"Including change sides?" she asked incredulously, not that she had asked that of Antonin, but it was important to start with as clear a picture as possible.

"The side is irrelevant," he said immediately, his voice flat. She wanted to doubt his words, not trust his intentions but Antonin’s voice played over in her mind, ‘he killed his wife’.  _ Maybe the side didn't matter? _

Hermione turned her request over in her mind once again; she needed them to do this, she doubted that Harry would have picked up on Bellatrix's behaviour at the manor, what with everything else that was going on, if she pulled this off they would be home free.

"I need something from you," she asserted, endeavouring to make her voice calm, and devoid of emotion. Hermione didn't want to convey how important this item was, not yet, if she had learnt anything from her time around the Slytherins in her life, it was that everything had a value, it all came down to how much you would be willing to pay.

"Go on," he answered measuredly, sitting back in his chair, his dark blonde hair catching the fading light from the window.

"You have an item, I believe it is located in your vaults... and I would like it," Hermione said carefully.

"You want some restitution?" Rodolphus asked, he didn't even seem mad, just contemplative, he turned his head to the side, and the long  _ straight  _ strands of his hair escaped from behind his ear, on one side. His lack of disgust triggered hers,  _ seriously who the fuck were these people? _ Hermione started, she normally didn't swear in her head. Up to this point she had day after day of feeling muted, both from Bellatrix's torture and the emotional revelations that followed, Hermione felt a stirring of anger, and she clung to it. While not typically the best response, the surge of reaction made her feel more like herself.

"No, I'm not interested in your  _ money, _ " she declared, as dispassionately as possible, despite the fact she wanted to scream in his face. This whole situation could have used a great deal of shouting and breaking things, not that she could give into those urges now. Belatedly she realised that might be part of the reason she liked Antonin, the passion that thrived under his skin; she shelved that worrying revelation for further consideration when she was on her own.

Hermione centred herself, drawing herself up, and pushing away the other thoughts. "It's a cup, it supposedly belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, there is a spell I am working on, for the war effort, and that chalice is mentioned specifically."

Hermione didn't know a great deal about Rodolphus, much of what she had heard was about the dark, ruthless character that the Prophet painted, rightly given his crimes. But she knew almost nothing about the man behind the mask, accept what he had freely told her, though that wasn't enough for a complete picture.  _ Would he believe her? Was he even intelligent and calculating enough to doubt her? Did he care either way?  _ She didn't know. More questions and no answers. Hermione was well aware that she was a terrible liar, though it appeared that if the person's last name was Lestrange she could pull it off. She hazarded a quick glance at Antonin whose face was impassive as ever, though she was sure she could detect a hint of pride in his eyes as she regarded him.

Rodolphus was staring at her intently, his eyes assessing, he appeared to be weighing his options. "Ok," he said finally, “I believe we can accommodate that." Hermione felt herself internally sigh with relief; it had been worth it, she would have something to give Harry, something that moved them closer.

"I have a condition, though," his measured tone caught her by surprise, lost as she was in her planning.

"Name it," Hermione said dismissively, there was  _ nothing _ she wouldn't do at this point to end it.

Rodolphus half smiled at her, and she felt a bead of concern form in her stomach. "Let's discuss when I have the…  _ item _ , I'll be back as soon as it is in my possession."

She nodded, the tiny worry bubbling within her as she assessed his demeanour, he looked almost cheerful, after all her time around Death Eaters, Hermione knew in her bones that  _ nothing  _ good ever came from them being happy. Without a further word Rodolphus leapt up from his seat and was gone from the room, calling his goodbyes over his shoulder. Maybe she would know more about him sooner than she thought.

Luna untangled herself from Hermione's lap, and both girls made to stand.

"Hermione, might I have a few words?" Rabastan asked hesitantly.

Hermione stared at him, as she bent her knees, getting the life back into her legs. She hadn't figured out what to make of the younger Lestrange brother, his moods were so changeable, he seemed to feel everything so keenly, not that she could criticise him for that. Hermione had always thought she might grow out of having such raw emotions, but looking at Rabastan, who she supposed she should start thinking of as her uncle, she recognised that this might be an inherited trait. Sighing she dropped back into her seat and Luna moved towards him; his face lit with a smile as he whispered into her ear before she nodded and rushed out of the room.

"Antonin give us a minute," Rabastan said, once the door had closed, his tone was much less patient than the tone he had with her, and Hermione could have told him his attitude was a mistake even before Antonin stood and moved lazily towards him, her...  _ Whatever he was, wizard?  _ Turned to look at her, clearly asking for her approval to the requested conversation, she nodded her head, almost imperceptibly, and Antonin continued stalking forward. He placed one large hand on the younger wizard's chest and pushed him back into the chair behind him, without warning or ceremony.

"Feet on the floor, voice down, and hands to yourself Lestrange," Antonin bit out before looking at her. "Five minutes." He raised his eyebrows as if daring her to challenge him, but she had no intention of doing so, he was clearly unhappy about some of the events of the morning, and she had no craving to rile him further.

The sound of him slamming the door behind himself had her staring at the ceiling; she was not looking forward to the inevitable conversation after this. The silence seemed to stretch on forever making her uncomfortable.

"He meant it… when he said five minutes, in fact, he will probably be back in here after four so if there is-"

"I'm not sure how to begin," Rabastan interrupted, his words a mirror of Rodolphus first sentence to her that grim day, Hermione felt her throat run dry. "I wanted to speak to you, but I didn't plan what to  _ actually say, _ " he wrung his hands in front of himself. "My brother has not had the best life-"

"-Look if you want me to feel pity for-"

"No, not pity,” Rabastan interjected, “but maybe, one day, some… understanding… he... well, he loves you already you know? And love has never really been his strong suit,” he said with a pained expression. “I think he shut himself off from emotional responses a long time ago, but he  _ does _ feel for you. You might never be able to return that feeling but… I would ask that you try, in time, to accept it from him, in the ways that he can show it."

The earnest plea in his tone dissolved Hermione’s anger, righteous as it may have been. She found herself pondering his request long after the wizard had left.

* * *

A very much  _ still disgruntled _ Antonin left the house in the early evening with Yaxley, to meet with Professor Snape. They had found out that Wormtail had been made responsible for Nagini's care before his death, and due to Voldemort's increasing paranoia another Death Eater had not been assigned the role of carer come guard, giving them the opening they needed. Hermione tried not to think about Antonin putting himself in danger at her request, again. If they were found out the punishment would be severe and lengthy. Though Antonin never acted as if he was put upon, or even afraid, Hermione worried. Remaining in the bedroom after he left, quietly fretting until Luna breezed in.

"Do you think they are going to be okay?" Hermione asked, as Luna settled herself down next to her.

Luna considered her reply, playing with the frilly hem of her transfigured dress. "I believe so; Professor Snape is very good at  _ not dying _ , that snake has gone against the natural order; the universe will be looking to right itself. I'm sure they will feel her assisting them."

"Thank you,” Hermione said, looking up at the ceiling, “that was strangely comforting."

They laid in silence for a while, simply drinking in the peace that came from being together again, Hermione realised how much she had subconsciously been worrying about her friend since they had parted company at the Weasley wedding. Her wool-gathering was interrupted by an amusing thought. "Luna, how do you think they're all getting along?"

Her friend’s face broke into a wicked little smile, "Whatever are you implying Hermione?"

"Just that, if it wasn't so dangerous, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for this mission." Hermione put on her best Professor Snape voice, "Do you two  _ dunderheads _ have any idea what you are doing? I would have thought, given your time of life, you would show a little more aptitude than first years, but alas, I was foolish to hope."

Luna was overcome with giggles. Hermione attempted Yaxley's thick Northern gruff, much less successfully. "Fuck you Snape, not all of us have an  _ innate _ understanding of creatures that slither in the shadows, looking up at everyone they interact with."

Once their laughter had died down the stillness between them felt heavy, they were safe here, tucked away in Yaxley's home, but they weren't facing reality, and they both knew it.

"We need to speak to Harry," Luna whispered, vocalising the unsaid between them.

"I know," Hermione sighed.

"He may be somewhat  _ displeased _ by events here," Luna hedged.

"That is potentially a  _ very large _ understatement."

* * *

Antonin and Yaxley got back late, and Antonin was in an even worse mood than earlier. Hermione didn't think she should find it so diverting that Professor Snape could get under their skin so easily, but they were usually so unflappable, she mentally congratulated herself on having been able to survive under the heat of the teacher’s scorn for so long.

She and Luna had waited up for them, quietly making plans in the empty house. The elves had brought them teas as they discussed next steps, the mood had been more than a little solemn. When the expected wizards finally made their appearance, Hermione followed them, without invitation, into the study. They didn't protest, and seeking to continue her stay she moved to the sideboard while they were removing their outer robes, pouring them some liberal measures of firewhisky.

Hermione resisted the urge to take a swig herself, squaring her shoulders before she turned to deposit the glasses in front of them, and waving off their murmurings of thanks, as they collapsed into the aged leather chairs. She remained standing, steeling herself she began before she could lose her nerve. 

"Now that the snake is gone, and Rodolphus is getting the cup, I need to speak to Harry,” she recited her prepared words, “if I contact Professor Snape I can get their location," she divulged in a surprisingly even tone, but the real challenge was still to come.

She heard the sharp clunking of a thick bottomed glass being set down roughly, Antonin spoke, his voice guttural and jarring, "You are not leaving Hermione." It wasn’t a question, it wasn't even an acknowledgement of what she had said, it was a command. But she wasn't answerable to him.

"That's not your decision," Hermione began hotly but she felt her throat run dry as she took in his face, Antonin looked wild, the intensity of his expression almost too much. If it was just rage and dominance contained there she would have felt herself harden, ready to do battle with him, but there were a myriad of things conveyed in his expression, the momentary flashes of both hurt and fear cut her the deepest. Hermione couldn't back down, though; this wasn’t about her. "I have to see him," she implored.

Antonin stood, his body language predatory, commanding and serious, his face in shadow as his unruly, thick hair fell in front of one of his eyes unchecked. Hermione noticed smudges on his cheeks for the first time, dirt and what looked like dried blood spotted on his flesh. Another cut to her heart as she remembered what he had been doing that evening,  _ for her _ , and as soon as he had returned she had launched at him.  _ It was the only way _ , she told herself. If she had let him sleep, brought it up again in the morning he would have attempted to  _ handle her _ , the fight was inevitable, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

"You are not well enough yet, if you leave you could get hurt again."

Hermione pushed aside his concern, "I'll have Harry and Ron and I'll-"

"That didn't help last time,” he yelled, “you were nearly  _ dead _ , and where were they?" The hold Antonin kept on his rage seemed to be snapping, she stepped back, colliding with the large desk. Logically she knew that Antonin would _ never  _ hurt her, but standing at his full height and loud as he was being, she couldn't help feeling intimidated.

"Antonin you don't understand, the war," she tried desperately, and immediately she knew it was the wrong thing to say.

"I don't understand the situation because of the war?” he said incredulously, stepping back in disbelief, his face pinching into affronted disbelief. “Can you hear yourself, Hermione? I have been fighting in this war since before you were born. Don't you dare presume to  _ preach _ at me about my lack of understanding," he growled.

She glared at him, condescension a trigger of old for her, she agreed with his argument but not his conclusions, she wasn't a delicate bird to be kept in a cage of his creation. Gritting her teeth she stepped away from the desk, from her position of retreat, right back into his path, moving until she was a hair's breadth away, and pushed her finger into his chest. "Don't speak to me like I'm a child Antonin, if you want to be fighting this war for the next twenty years,  _ by all means, _ try and stop me, but if you want this _ over,  _ then you will understand  _ that I need to go. _ "

Antonin grabbed her wrist, pulling her finger away from him and moving towards her until there was no space left between them. "Do not force my hand on this Hermione, you will not like the results," his voice was low and menacing, and she didn’t doubt his ability to follow through on his threat. All at once the mounting tension peaked, and he dropped her hand carelessly, stomping out of the room without a backwards glance.

After his retreating form had disappeared, there wasn't anywhere to direct the turmoil she was feeling, she span around regarding Yaxley sat back in his chair, tumbler held to his lips. "Don't you start," she warned.

He smiled at her, raising his hands in front of himself, though the gesture seemed patronising rather than conciliatory, Hermione suspected he found her about as intimidating as an angry kitten. “Sit down Hermione,” he bade, gesturing at one of the vacant chairs across from him, and she complied, not immediately sure what else she could do.  _ Did she go back to her room? Or avoid it in case Antonin wanted to fight? She could wake Luna, but then it would seem like she was prolonging the fallout. _

Her ratcheting thoughts were interrupted when Yaxley placed a glass in front of her, not even half as full as the ones she had poured and she picked it up warily. “I haven’t poisoned it,” he accused softly, and Hermione nodded at him once, drinking a bit of the burning liquid down.

“I suppose you are going to tell me I handled that poorly?”

“No,” Yaxley said finally, surprising her. "I was just going to suggest that we arrange for Potter to come here. Then you two can go back to not shouting at each other."

Hermione felt too angry to articulate her thanks; the words came out a little mumbled and he laughed "and to give you some,  _ perspective,  _ on his reaction _ ,  _ I wouldn't have warned you, I would have just ensured you  _ couldn't _ leave."

Hermione looked up, regarding him for a long time, taking in his unrepentant face and smirking eyes. "I don't doubt it."

* * *

Antonin managed to maintain his bad mood for a whole two days. In spite of being made aware of the plan to bring Harry  _ to them, _ he continued to be haughty and aloof. He managed to infuse his every waking moment with ways to make his malcontent clear. Hermione would never have believed that you could eat breakfast, or put away a shirt, in an angry way, but she had unfortunately been proved wrong. She had assumed, having spent a lot of time with boys of her own age, that when they grew up, males would mature, and thus, be unlikely to continue to fall into sulks or angry tirades. Spending time with men in their forties made Hermione realise, with a sense of growing despair, that actually, all that changed was that boys tended to get a little taller, as they became men.

Yaxley had informed them over dinner, the night before, that 'Potter' would be at the house today. Hermione had no idea how Professor Snape had managed to pull that off, but she presumed he must have been making use of some of the communications networks that the Order had set up. It was comforting to think that the fighters still had ways to make links with each other, even when they were forced to go underground. Hermione needed to see her friends with her own eyes, to affirm they were fine, but she was realistic about the likely outcome of the meeting. Censure was probable, approval negligible. But Hermione had made up her mind already; she wouldn't break in the face of the tirade that was coming her way, she had given her oath that she was prepared to stand by her choices, it was time to start proving it.

When she awoke that morning, Hermione felt excited beyond belief, and nervous as hell at the same time. She started to slide towards the edge of the bed when a pair of warm arms wrapped around her, halting her progress. Antonin buried his head into her neck, his rough stubble chaffing against her cheek, as he gripped her tighter into his chest. He had barely looked at her since their argument, though they had both opted to return to the same bed, so the sudden contact was a bit of a surprise, Hermione shut her eyes tightly and tried to stop her body from sinking into his comforting embrace.

"Hermione," he breathed against her shoulder, "whatever happens this morning… You'll stay?" he asked hoarsely.

She winced at the desperate tone in his voice, wondering if he had gotten any sleep at all. She doubted it, though his methods often enraged her, she was beginning to understand this man. Protection of those he loved was  _ everything _ to Antonin, and while that sometimes manifested itself in possessive inclinations, she recognised, in this instance, that the night at the manor had affected him as deeply as it had her, as annoyed as she was with him, the vulnerability in his inflexion made her chest hurt.

She wanted  _ so _ much to tell him what he wanted to hear, but after her little pep talk with herself, she knew she couldn't, not honestly. 

"Antonin," she began softly, but the one word was enough for him to know what she would say, she felt him tense, and she sagged.  _ He was too bloody perceptive for his own good _ . Hermione paused to try to think of what solace she could offer, "I won't leave today," she spoke quietly.

Antonin leant over to kiss her cheek, "I suppose that will have to do," he murmured mournfully, before pulling himself out of bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

* * *

Harry and Ron's appearance in the sun room later that day, was so surreal Hermione might have considered she had dreamt the visit, if it hadn't been for the  _ very  _ strong dose of reality she got with the memory of the subsequent arguments.

The boys had clearly been hesitant to believe whatever intelligence they had been given, if the look of relief on their faces when they saw her was anything to go by. Moments passed with frantic hugs, and assurances that they were all alive, and more or less whole, before they moved to sit down.

Luna took up her place from the day before, in the chair with Hermione. That the blonde clearly believed her to be in need of a physically comforting presence threw her off for a couple of seconds, this was _ Ron and Harry,  _ this wasn't the same as facing down the Lestranges,  _ was it? _ Hermione had learnt by now not to second guess her friend's judgement, so she kept quiet and straightened her spine. Yaxley and Antonin took seats in the circle of chairs, much to Ron's confusion, and the movement caused Harry to raise an eyebrow at her. She wondered at Yaxley’s behaviour for a few moments; she had never known him to do anything other than to remain at a distance, positioning himself on the peripheries, much like someone standing on guard. Then she realised, her friends were unknown entities, he wasn't satisfied to calculate his move from a corner, or more likely, he wanted to make sure he got to Antonin in time, should he need to cut the other wizard off.

Hermione looked her friends over, wherever they had been, they had obviously been looked after. The both showed signs of having eaten regularly and had obviously gained access to free running water; Hermione felt a tiny bit of the guilt she had been carrying float away from her shoulders. She had been tortured with the possibility that they were still facing hardships, while she was being doted on by house elves, and attentive members of the Dark Lord's 'most faithful'.

They caught her up on life at Shell Cottage, Remus' baby and the like, all peppered with little glances around the room as if they were both waiting for the penny to drop, and though it was great to hear the news ‘from home’, after a while, Hermione began to feel frustrated. Harry seemed to be evading the main topic; their mission was a giant elephant in the room. She could see the Master of the house getting impatient. Yaxley was not as still as Antonin, though he could also be described as stoic, by knowing him better she supposed she was learning his tells. His foot twitched with every new topic, and Hermione silently pleaded with Harry to get to the point. Finally, when her bespectacled friend seemed to have exhausted every other subject in the world, he sighed before addressing what they were there for. "We haven't done anything," he muttered, and Hermione felt her eyes widen.

"Anything?" she asked, with a calm she didn't feel.

" _ We tried Mione, _ we really did, but we had no idea where to start looking for the next...  _ piece _ ... and I didn't know how you were progressing with the snake situation and well... Dobby was hurt during the fight," Harry said, his words coming out in a rush. Her friend looked so forlorn, and Hermione felt terrible that the elf had gotten hurt as part of his attempt to protect them, sadly, however, it appeared that her sentiments were not shared by the whole room.

"Bloody hell, the fate of the free world hangs in the balance, and we declare a national holiday because an elf got hurt," Yaxley gruffed, he never raised his voice, he didn't need to, his blunt timbre was intimidating enough.

Though, not of course, to Harry, the-boy-who-never-knew-when-to-keep-his-mouth-shut Potter. "Excuse me?" Harry said coolly.

"Sorry Potter,” Yaxley spat, “I was under the impression that your best friend was savagely attacked, left for dead, and taken off by Death Eaters. But by all means, carry on about your  _ fucking elf. _ "

The silence in the room lasted all of two seconds before Ron, who up to this point had been darting his eyes around to regard everyone present, started shouting. "Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

Hermione swallowed, pushing down the fear in her stomach, "Ron."

He turned to her, rage and accusation burning in his eyes. "Why did they bring you  _ here _ ? Why are we all acting as if it's  _ just fine _ that we’re in a Death Eater's house?"

Hermione looked towards Harry with narrowed eyes,  _ thanks a lot, _ Potter. In a painful, faltering way, herself and Harry explained the history with the Death Eaters present, and how they had assisted up to that point. By silent agreement, they seemed to be glossing over any personal attachment. While Hermione was unhappy with subterfuge, it was  _ necessary _ for the moment. Antonin, thankfully, remained silent, though his knuckles clenched and his neck twisted as if he were fighting against himself to remain so. Hermione tried to not look directly at him, as much as was possible, lest she send some unintentional message that he needed to help. Instead, she focused on Ron, apologising for the information they had not divulged, and pleading for his understanding.

Eventually, they managed to calm him down, enough for him to stop shouting at least, he didn't like it, that much was plain, but he would go along with it for the greater good.

Which was why it was the worst possible time for a small house elf to pop up, announcing the arrival of Rodolphus and Rabastan, who entered the room, not a second after the elf had disappeared. Hermione held her fingers to her temples as the two men walked towards them, their progress halting at the sight of her friends.

"Ah, Hermione," Harry began, looking up at the new occupants of the room with wide eyes. "What's going on?"

She opened her mouth but nothing happened when she went to speak, she felt Luna's slim hand wrap around her own, giving her a gentle squeeze. Hermione locked eyes with Antonin whose face was set in grim lines, mirroring the tightness of his body, and yet something in his expression gave her comfort, he gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and she picked up his meaning,  _ how much worse could it get? _

Hermione sat up, looking them straight in the eyes and concentrated on keeping calm. "Since I have been here I have found out that,  _ well, _ there isn't any easy way to say this but I." As if she was hit with a Silencing Spell, the words just would not come. Hermione could feel her eyes beginning to sting; an icy grip seemed to claw at her heart,  _ what if they rejected her? _

Harry, sensing her hesitation, sat forward in his seat. “Hermione,” he said gently, offering her a small smile, “I thought you were dead,  _ literally dead _ . The last time I saw you… I,” he grit his teeth, “there isn't  _ anything _ you could tell me that would make me hate you.” He stared at her intently, and Hermione felt her throat close, she was so grateful for his reassurance. He knew, not everything, but more than Ron had about her relationship with Antonin and he was genuine.

“Harry I,” she tried, but she still couldn't get the words out. Saying it to Professor Snape had been easy, he was part of the new order of things, and he was also a master of the understatement, but Harry and Ron, they were her  _ life _ , a life she was desperate not to have to relegate to the past.

When it became apparent that she wouldn't be resuming speech anytime soon, Rodolphus spoke, moving amongst the circle until she could see his booted feet by her chair.

"Hermione is my daughter."

Simple, to the point and apparently factual. She was too emotional to pick up on the pride that had seeped into his otherwise placid tone.

Hermione had become an expert at reading her best friends over their years together; Harry seemed to be flickering between disbelief and pity for her plight. Ron, however, was an easier read,  _ he was furious _ . She had anticipated he would be angry, but judging by the vein popping out on his neck, the train he was on had left angry some time ago.

"Ron I," Hermione began quietly, trying to head him off, but it was too late.

"Don't you  _ Ron _ me,” he snapped, “ _ what the actual fuck Hermione _ , how could you?"

She wasn't sure if it was his choice of words, or his tone, that had offended the room at large but in an instant, all the men present descended on him, and yet it surprised her that it was Rabastan who got to him first. In a movement, so swift she wasn't exactly sure how it had happened, the younger Lestrange had Ron pinned against the far wall.

"How could she  _ what _ ? Pick her parents,” he seethed, close to the redheads face. “You will adjust your tone when you speak to her or I will make you."

Ron's ire didn't dissipate; he never could turn it off one he got going, even when facing down a serial killer, he continued looking straight at her, as if Rabastan wasn’t even there. 

"You kept all this from  _ me _ , you and Harry keeping secrets  _ as usual. _ "

Hermione shared a glance with Luna; the blonde was sat in the chair watching events unfold impassively, after an unspoken exchange she reluctantly moved her legs allowing Hermione to stand. She hated when Ron shouted at her, especially when it was in front of  _ others _ , and these others were not her favoured audience for this conversation. But she couldn't ignore that underneath his passion there was some real hurt, she never wanted that, she approached the wall in slow, measured movements, thankful that for once, Harry wasn't reacting as well.

"Rabastan, please put him down," Hermione requested softly, but Rabastan made no move to follow her directive. She raised a hand hesitantly and placed it on his forearm, feeling strange about touching him, he flinched slightly at the contact but otherwise didn't react. "Please," she pressed and watched his resolve crack, Rabastan clearly didn't want to listen, but he knew he had to. Eventually, he complied, though rather than 'putting him down' as she had requested he more 'let him drop'.

Hermione suggested, gently, that they all sit back down, she hoped that given a chance to cool the atmosphere they could get all of this straightened out, well, maybe not that, but at least get them to a point where they would be able to work together. It was a foolish hope. The emotionally unstable in the room outnumbered those on a more even keel, and even the more restrained among them, herself included, were known to have a bit of a temper. It didn't take long for it all to ignite once more, Ron was still seething from earlier and was too raw to resist making a jab following her updating Harry on progress with Nagini.

"Another thing I don't know about? See, that's the thing, when I left you were both adamant that you  _ weren't _ talking behind my back, and yet here's all the evidence that I was _ right _ all along."

“Well, you said that we were fucking, and you were wrong about that,” Harry seethed quietly, and Hermione looked heavenward, both in exasperation and to avoid Antonin’s eyes which she knew would have trained on her.

Hermione heard her mind whisper defensive comments but she was glad the thoughts remained inside her head, she doubted they would have been comforting. She was so caught up in how to ease her friend’s heart that she didn't fully comprehend what he had said, but others had. The increasingly desperate protestations from herself and Harry were cut off when Luna spoke.

"You left?" Her voice had none of her usual melodic inflexion; the tone was flat, cold and deliberate.

At the sound, everyone in the room tensed, apart from Ron. Her tone was low and quiet, but there was a clear warning to them. Hermione had only ever heard Luna take that tone once or twice, and  _ this Luna _ was not to be dismissed.

Ron didn't immediately answer so she pressed. "You left them?  _ When _ ?" Luna turned in the seat, shifting forward until she was perched on the edge of the chair. Hermione felt like the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself.

"What does it matter Luna, before Christmas okay?" Ron answered frustrated.

"No, I don't believe it is," Luna breathed, her face seemed vacant as she twirled a thick section of her flaxen hair around her fingers, the display would have looked absentminded to a casual observer, Hermione was not that. Ron’s face was flushed by now, and he glared. Luna was unperturbed by the demonstration, Ron may have been hot fury, but Luna would burn like ice when pushed, and she was being pushed now.

"You should speak to Harry; we had a little talk about erosion years ago."

Ron looked perplexed, "They didn't need me-"

"No, I don't suppose you think they did. Tell me, how long were you breastfed for?"

Ron was spluttering now, and Luna made to stand, Hermione felt her body shift forward and instinctively reached to loop her hands around Luna's waist. She didn't know what would happen if Luna got up, but she suspected it was nothing good. "No matter,” the blonde said, sinking back into the seat, 

“Do you dream of Hermione, Ron? As she was at the manor? _ I do _ . I dream of her screams and her bloody face. I dream of the burden I carry because she did it for  _ us _ . I dream of her limpness and her lifelessness. I was wondering  _ when _ you were going to ask how she was?"

"She looks fine, supported by her Death Eater  _ buddies, _ " he retorted, but Hermione noticed a slight darkening of his cheeks that she assumed might not be attributable to rage. As ever, Ron displayed an almost unparalleled knack of knowing the  _ exact words _ and force that would piss everyone off. Hermione was beginning to feel slightly despondent.

Yaxley seemed to take the most offence, "Watch yourself ginger. Otherwise, I'll use you to decorate the walls. You’re in  _ my house, _ and I don't give a  _ fuck _ how pure your blood is. You should know, though, whatever your opinion of us, Hermione is under Antonin's protection, which means she is under  _ mine _ , and that's even before considering her family and the little blonde in the corner."

Harry, whether sensing her distress or feeling his own put his hand on Ron's shoulder silencing him and turning to regard Yaxley and Antonin. "Thank you, for bringing her back,” he said, each word a concession, “I don't think I trust you, but thank you," he said softly, and Hermione fixed a grateful expression on him.

Antonin rubbed his thumb and index finger around his mouth. "You're right not to trust us, Potter,” he said without apology, “we’re not doing this for you," it was the first time he had spoken, and Hermione was stunned at how calm he sounded.

Harry nodded, it was likely to be the only conversation between the men that day and Hermione was grateful for the soft tones. Harry looked at her then, and they shared a million thoughts in that one glance. "Hermione, I can't do this without you," he pleaded.

"You won't have to,” she said firmly, “I think the… _ Items  _ are taken care of; the next thing is to plan how to end this."

He nodded clearly relieved, regarding Ron from the corner of his eye. "Maybe we could meet again in a couple of days when… Err… When everything has settled?" he suggested.

"Good idea," she sighed, it was best to end it as soon as possible.

With that the disastrous meeting began to break up, Yaxley followed the exodus to speak to Harry about contacting someone within the Order to pass on information. Clearly, he thought the balance of power was shifting.

* * *

Hermione sagged in relief when she was once again in her refuge alone; she had a blissful thirty seconds or more of peace before she realised they hadn't covered off Professor Snape's involvement in all of it yet.

_ Shit. _


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity large sections in italics are flashbacks.

Apparating, even solo, after such a long time, felt incredibly strange, and Hermione was momentarily overcome by nausea, the like of which she hadn't experienced since she had been a learner,  _ years  _ before. But none of that was as bizarre as landing in their destination; the last time Hermione had scampered around the chocolate box Wizarding village of Hogsmeade, the world had been a very different place.

The feel of Luna's delicate hand pressing against her arm grounded her, bringing her back to the present, and the soft pop in the air after she had finally straightened out, indicated Harry and Ron had arrived as planned. At least that had gone off without a hitch, Hermione couldn't help agreeing with the nagging voice in her head, sniping that it was likely to be the last thing that would go to plan that day.

The town was almost totally deserted, and yet the atmosphere felt charged. Hermione couldn't be sure if she imagined the simmering tension, lost to her trepidation, or whether it really was the case that the whole town was holding its breath. Taking a last look around, the foursome began to walk silently to their journey's end. Hermione was heavily put in mind of the western style movies her grandad had  _ insisted _ on watching over the Christmas holidays, so much so she was almost expecting to see a tumbleweed whizzing by as they cut across the high-street.

Keeping half an eye on their surroundings, ever conscious of the possibility of a surprise attack, they moved to The Hogs Head, as Professor Snape had arranged. They didn't make any effort to be subtle, this was it now, and during the planning sessions, they had made the conscious decision  _ to be seen _ . Hermione had questioned the move, commenting that whoever was watching would be able to ascertain their intentions. Her professor had looked derisively at her, and given a 'No' that was a little more emphatic than strictly necessary, in her opinion, before going on to explain that their ‘foolish Gryffindor’ nature, and ‘empirical lack of subtlety’ would lead  _ anyone _ that may be watching to conclude they were just being arrogant, and typically foolhardy.

They moved into the grimy pub to find it empty, and while the place was never exactly heaving, the unexpected stillness added to the prickling sensation, working its way up the short hairs at the base of Hermione's neck.

They were gruffly  _ met _ , not welcomed, by Aberforth Dumbledore. Hermione realised, somewhat belatedly, that she had never met the man before, not properly at least. She wasn't exactly up on Wizarding customs, but she was fairly certain purchasing a drink while subtly cleaning the receptacle, didn't count as a formal introduction. As the boorish wizard came out from behind the bar, she observed that up close she could make out the resemblance he carried to his brother. Both favoured excessive facial hair, which made picking out their  _ true features _ difficult, but it was there. It would have made her uneasy, if it wasn't for the definite absence of twinkle in his eyes. Aberforth's eyes were cold and assessing, his attitude was certainly not accommodating, but there was also no prevailing instinct that what he was about to say was total bullshit,  _ so swings and roundabouts _ , Hermione thought.

The wizard appeared to be  _ massively put out _ by their arrival in his dusty main room. Grousing and grumbling, he clattered about the room, making a show of moving things from place to place. Harry took the lead, explaining that they had been told he could get them access to the castle, the pause was unnecessary in Hermione’s opinion, not that she voiced it, as the wizard must have already had this information from Professor Snape. Harry eventually got to the end of the instructions, and Aberforth eyed them all in turn before retreating into the backroom.

In the sudden silence Hermione could sense her fear beginning to ratchet, she did not have happy memories of the last time she was in the castle, and from what they had been told, the Hogwarts of this year was much, much worse than the one they remembered.

* * *

_ "The Carrows are indiscriminate and macabrely inventive in their punishments. Their reign within the school has driven most of the Gryffindor students, of all years, to living out of The Room of Requirement, though Alecto and Amycus are still unaware of their location. Mr Longbottom has been running something of a resistance movement, aided by the enterprising Miss Weasley. It would appear that he has taken the brunt of some of the more… creative ways, that have been added to the curriculum to… encourage compliance." _

_ Hermione watched her professor’s eye twitch slightly, though he maintained all other outward signs of total composure. She was sure no one else had detected it, Harry and Ron thought he was totally incapable of compassion, maybe she was just beginning to learn his tells? Professor Snape was struggling with his year as headmaster, Hermione was sure of it, he looked thinner than ever, his hair was lank, the dark circles under his eyes were now so pronounced they looked like bruising. He wasn't looking after himself, though whether it was a conscious or unconscious decision Hermione couldn't be sure, not that she would have ever had the courage to ask. Hermione wondered what percentage of his dwindling self-respect he had lost this year. How would he survive psychologically, even if they won? _

_ They had been sat cloistered in the sun room for hours, herself, Antonin, Professor Snape, Luna, Harry and Ron as had been typical over the last week. Yaxley came in and out, depending on what else he needed to be doing. He could hardly account for his time anymore, Voldemort's increasing paranoia had led to drastic changes at the Ministry. Where before the Dark Lord had been happy to leave the Ministry to be run by his 'trusted' Death Eaters, he was now becoming more and more irrational. He demanded an increasing number of detailed reports on snatchings, bills being passed, comings and goings of key staff, and anything else he seemed to be able to dream up. The Northern wizard bore it all without much chat. Though, much like the dour headmaster, he looked as if he could benefit from one night's uninterrupted sleep, the number of empty whisky bottles that Hermione found hidden away indicated that he wasn’t unaffected as he would like everyone to believe. _

_ After the first couple of disastrous meetings the thrown together alliance had formed a shaky truce. As long as the conversation was focussed purely on strategy, the strange group could just about get by, overlooking the odd pointed look or derisive scoff, or Yaxley and Professor Snape in general, neither had much time for tact or pretence. _

_ They had spent the morning discussing The Hallows, and it appeared that for once age and experience did not count for much, the assembled Death Eaters could provide little more concrete information than the trio had uncovered themselves. At some point conversation turned towards Grindelwald, and Dumbledore’s association with him, Hermione felt like they were going round in circles, but she pressed her mouth shut. It didn't seem to matter what people's concerns were; Harry was determined to understand his former mentor, Rita Skeeter's unsurprisingly salacious book had wounded her friend deeply. Sadly, Hermione believed that the slanderous accusations, though repackaged and sexed up, were probably only the tip of the iceberg. _

_ Hermione busied her hands, arranging some tea but as she looked up to pass Harry his cup she caught him looking pensive, he was assessing something. Harry holding onto information never ended well for anyone, but she decided against calling him out in front of the crowd, it definitely wouldn't get her anywhere. Plus, she had to give him some credit. He wasn't the boy that had run heart first head later into the Department of Mysteries, not anymore. He wasn't matured as such, but no one could live through what he had seen without changing. _

_ Hermione became aware of a familiar nagging sensation; she hadn't often thought back to her time in the tent since she had been brought to Yaxley's townhouse, the memories were not of the kind that you would choose to go back to regularly, or fondly. But now they were returning to planning it was coming back again. It was like there was something just out of the corner of her vision, like reading a book that was out of focus, she was missing something. Hermione looked over at a quiet Harry, he contributed little to the session, picking at food and looking around himself, maybe he already knew what it was? _

* * *

Hermione and the others instinctively stepped forward as a form appeared, a girl with soft blonde, no,  _ strawberry  _ blonde hair, emerging from the distance of the large portrait in the pub's back room. It took several seconds before they could identify that she wasn't alone, and that the tall, war-torn figure next to her was Neville. The picture swung open as he reached the foreground, and he stepped into the room; his face was bruised, his skin mottled with contusions in all stages of healing, he had a cut lip, he was dirty all over, and his clothes were in a bad state of repair.

None of that matched the broad grin on his face. "Blimey,” he said in a familiar timbre that made Hermione’s heart clench as he regarded them wide-eyed. “Am I glad to see you lot."

* * *

When they emerged into the Room of Requirement it looked nothing like the trio remembered. The walls were lined with hammocks and food stores were almost everywhere, it looked shockingly like a refugee camp.

When the four new additions were announced the place erupted, they moved around to speak to as many students as possible, briefly reacquainting themselves with classmates and friends, but there was  _ one _ person they were all seeking, and it didn't take long to find her. As soon as the crowds had shifted, a red tinged blur shot past, launching straight at Harry, with his reflexes he thankfully caught her, and as she squeezed around his neck tightly, Ron and Hermione joined the hug from either side, taking comfort for the moment, while they still could.

When they reluctantly broke apart, Hermione noticed a nasty looking gash across Ginny’s right cheek, stretching from the corner of her eye, cutting across her pale, freckled flesh, to almost meet her top lip. Hermione remained silent as she waited for Harry to catch it, and she saw the moment he did, his eyes flashed momentarily. She kept her mouth shut as they began a whispered, urgent toned conversation, but she heard all she needed to,  _ Alecto Carrow _ .

Hermione had never considered herself a vengeful person, though she could admit she had acted in such ways before, only if the situation presented itself. She wouldn't go looking for anyone in particular, she was aware there wasn't the time. But if a situation fell in her lap, she wouldn't hesitate.

* * *

The reality of what they were facing began to sink in when they made it into the Great Hall; it was bizarre how much more ominous a place could feel when the typical noise was replaced by silence. Every slight shuffle of feet, or murmured word echoed around the hall; the tables swept aside for the last stand.

Hermione clenched her fists impotently as Professor McGonagall challenged the headmaster, her loud, vicious accusations tearing through the silence before bouncing off the walls. Hermione had to bite her tongue to hold back her shouts of protest, her former professor had, more than once,  _ expressly _ commanded her to keep her mouth shut.

Hermione was stood in the back of the vast hall, hidden amongst the rows of robe-clad students, her borrowed Gryffindor cloak pulled over her hair, that was tied back tightly. It felt so foreign to her now, school and her life at Hogwarts seemed like a lifetime ago. She moved subtly, shifting until she could see the headmaster clearly, while remaining obscured. Hermione faced him and spotted exactly when he saw her, their eyes locked, and she was not the one to break the gaze, it was the least she could do. She continued resolutely staring forward in an attempt to offer what pathetically limited comfort she could, also to avoid looking  _ anywhere _ near the snarling faces of the Carrows. Her time at the townhouse had taught her many things about her worldview, exposing how childlike it had been in its idealism before. People were not good or bad, everyone existed within a spectrum, pure people completed dark deeds and vice versa, even those that were bad, sometimes, when given the right reason, were capable of redemption. That was a lovely theory she supposed, but it did not apply to the hard-faced twins in front of her, adults that had tormented children, for nothing more than their amusement.

As soon as the first Curse was thrown, chaos reigned. Hermione found herself in a corner with her back pressed against Luna's, both of them instinctively moving into the stance that Yaxley had taught them while Antonin yelled drills.

The small part of her brain that was unoccupied by defending herself wondered where they both were;  _ they must have been on their way by now _ . The thought provided her with no comfort, there were so many possible outcomes for this day, and none of them were  _ wholly _ good.

* * *

_ Following the first meeting with Harry and Ron, Hermione had left her self-styled sanctuary to seek Antonin out. They had been at odds over the past few days, and although he had reached out to her that morning, she needed to speak to him, to clear the air properly. It could cost them both their lives if they went into battle even slightly distracted. After idly walking around the large home for a time, she found him in the garden, his frame stretched out on a stone bench, absently watching the elves scurry about. Hermione approached the bench, cautiously taking a seat next to him hesitantly, unsure of her welcome. _

_ They sat in companionable silence for a while, and Hermione almost sighed into the comfort that the lack of tension in the air between them afforded. She watched the sky as it began to fade into the sunset, waiting until she could put it off no longer. "I have to see this through," she stated delicately, looking straight ahead to where Antonin was watching one of the smallest elves furiously repotting crocuses. _

_ "I know," he supplied eventually, in a muted voice, reaching out he pulled her hand into his. "I… I would have preferred that you stay somewhere safe," he admitted as his calloused fingers ran small circles over all of her much smaller digits, his moves unhurried, before he linked his hand with hers. _

_ "Nowhere is safe Antonin, not anymore. If he wins, I'm dead anyway." He made to open his mouth, to interrupt her, and Hermione gently placed her free hand over his mouth, relishing in the sensation of his rough stubble against her palm. "Maybe not straight away, but eventually. I know you would do everything you could to protect me, but there would be limitations on that… there would be no more guarantees," she explained softly, willing him to understand. _

_ Antonin exhaled roughly before tugging on their joined hands and hauling her into his side, unfastening their hands to wrap an arm around her shoulder, and pulling her against his chest. After an indeterminable amount of time, Hermione felt a subdued nod against the top of her head. Tears welled in her eyes and fell before she could stop them, she turned into his embrace, to wrap her arms around his middle.  _

_ "Thank you, for understanding," she whispered. _

_ "I don't understand… not really, but I can't fight with you, not before… I can't fight with you," Antonin answered, defeated. _

_ It was Hermione’s turn to nod wordlessly, and she did so against the crinkled fabric of his shirt, praying this wouldn't be the last time they would sit in a garden, watching the sunset together. _

_ After his reluctant accession to her desire to be at the battle Antonin had insisted on running through training with her and Luna. Though they would never move with the almost symbiotic anticipation that Yaxley and Antonin had, they had done enough to improve the limited abilities they had. Hermione had been blown away when the wizards demonstrated an exercise together, having never seen them operate as a unit before, it was almost like a ballet, they both exuded such raw power it was captivating and more than a little arousing. When they had gone to bed that night Antonin had been affectionate, holding her tighter than before, each caress a pledge that he cared for her, each lingering touch a beseeching her to stay safe _

* * *

Before long the numbers in the room dramatically increased, as both the Order and a sea of masked figures began to move amongst the fighting. Some of the Order knew there was a faction of Death Eaters that had switched loyalties, Kingsley had been contacted, and had spread the word to several of other senior members. It had been suggested that they  _ reveal _ their allegiances from the start, and lend firepower to the light, but Antonin had _ insisted _ they play along. He felt they would be more valuable staying amongst the Death Eater forces, operating as a sleeper cell, targeting their  _ brothers _ without being detected. If the remaining inner circle knew there were traitors the entire place was likely to become a bloodbath. No matter the validity of the opposing arguments Antonin would not be swayed, this was not a game to him, lives were at stake, he had told Hermione  _ repeatedly _ that the only thing he cared about was getting her and Yaxley out safely. She had questioned him about his staunch position, and after much prodding, he reluctantly conceded that while his plan would have been what he would have advocated, either way, he wanted to ensure they had an out with any eventuality. ‘I refuse to have no way to protect you should the Dark Lord prevail,’ he had stated firmly. Hermione had protested, but Antonin was done making allowances.

Caught up in the fighting, or more shielding in her case, Hermione almost missed the sight of a familiar dark figure moving in the distance. Her stomach tightened, and without further thought, she turned and whispered urgently at Luna. "He's going; I have to follow." Luna nodded gravely and gripped Hermione’s arm tightly for just a moment before she sped across to Neville’s side, leaving Hermione to exit the hall.

* * *

Hermione ran towards the largely disused boathouse, following in the direction Professor Snape had moved in. He had made her  _ promise _ not to come to his defence when he would be labelled a traitor, and she had, in turn, made him swear that he would not attempt to make a martyr of himself. He hadn't appreciated the charcterisation, that much had been evident from his heated glower, but he had reluctantly agreed all the same. And now here he was, advancing to a secluded spot during open battle. Hermione had no doubt he had been summoned, and though her idea to hasten after him without a plan was completely reckless, and likely to get her into trouble with just about everyone, she didn't feel she had a choice.  _ What was her alternative? _ She couldn't let him die, a tiny tug at her heart urged her feet forwards, she didn't know what state he was in mentally right now, he hadn't been coping for months,  _ what if he didn't try to fight? _

Hermione’s much shorter stature worked against her, and her panicked sprint was no match for his determined strides. By the time she made it into the rickety structure, remaining within the shadows, she was just in time to see Voldemort raise his wand.

" _ Bombarda Maxima, _ " she screamed immediately. A testament to not having thought her actions through Hermione lost her footing as the old boathouse caved in on itself from the strength of her spell, no doubt helped along by her panic, and Hermione was deposited into the lake. She couldn't see Voldemort, and as best as she could she remained shielded by the various bits of debris all around until she heard him hiss loudly, taking the opportunity to peak Hermione watched dumbfounded as he... Well, it looked like he floated away, he wasn't wet, so she assumed he had never been dropped in the lake in the first place.

Once Voldemort had mercifully disappeared from the skyline Hermione searched all around her, the wooden remains of the boathouse were beginning to spread into deeper waters, she couldn't stay there much longer. Who knew what side the creatures within the murky waters below were on, or whether they even cared about the events in the Wizarding world, they would probably kill her purely for being within easy reach. Suddenly there was the sound of water surging, and she was grabbed from behind, a rough grip banding around her shoulders and sending her legs into panicked kicking. Hermione’s mind went to the fearsome merpeople, and she couldn't hold back a scream, she'd had enough experience of the Black Lake to assume she was in severe trouble.

"Hermione," a commanding voice barked.

She recognised the sound and her body immediately sagged against Professor Snape as he dragged her from the dense water to the bank. He had a strength that his thin form would have you believing wasn’t possible as he swam on his back, pulling her limp body as if she weighed nothing. He had only just dropped her on the ground when he began shaking her roughly. "What were you  _ thinking  _ girl? Were you trying to kill one of the most powerful wizards of all time?" he growled at her, he was on his knees, his face inches from hers as he seemed to try to dislodge the truth from her.

Hermione fought to break free of his hold, and stumbled to get to her feet, still panting. "No," she snarled back at him, "I'm not quite as arrogant as you  _ continue  _ to think I am... I was just trying to stop you getting killed."

“Well I…” he snapped, but Hermione interrupted, pulling her wet hair off her face.

“No,” she shouted, “You promised!”

Professor Snape regarded her, he looked…  _ surprised _ , his dark, wet hair clung to his hollow face making him look paler than ever. "You stupid, dunderheaded  _ child, _ " he said almost affectionately, as he stepped up to his feet. His warm tone shocked her, but it was nothing to the feeling or being dragged towards him as he kissed the very top of her head. "Thank you, Hermione," he breathed against her hair.

Unable to formulate any other response she whispered, "You're welcome, Professor."

"Oh bloody hell girl, call me Severus, I haven't been your Professor in over a year, and I'm never likely to be again."

Feeling somewhat comforted by the return to his more characteristic tone of address Hermione stepped back from the bank, and the two parted ways, she was eager to get back to Luna, she had left her for too long already.

* * *

As soon as Hermione made her way back into the castle, her run came to an abrupt stop. She seriously questioned if she had somehow been outside for days, rather than the minutes it had felt like. The castle looked ruined in places, thick curses scared the walls, and there were signs of rubble everywhere. Pulling herself together she quickened her step, pausing to silence her shoes, doing everything she could to be inconspicuous. She wasn't quick enough. Hermione felt the firm hand around her throat before she had even heard the smallest indication that she wasn't alone in the corridor. The fingers at her pulse tightened their grip savagely, and she was pushed roughly against the corridor wall. She felt the back of her head collide with something sharp on the uneven brickwork, as she met the cold grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy.

"Miss Granger, delighted to see you again," he said, his voice a study in over flounced etiquette and thinly veiled contempt. She tried to offer some response, feeble as it may have been, but she could not force anything passed the grip on her throat. "You see, you left us last time under the impression that your time under our  _ hospitality _ had been, well, the death of you."

He sneered at her, lifting her body, and shifting her higher against the wall till her feet involuntarily peddled in an attempt to retain purchase of the ground. "It took weeks to get the smell of  _ you _ out of the carpets, we had to burn them in the end, precious as they were they were, not worth the  _ taint, _ " Lucius spat the last word so forcefully Hermione flinched, causing him to smile widely at her.

As he squeezed her neck again, Hermione became aware of a trickling sensation at the top of her head, a warm sticky feeling that was travelling through her scalp. Just as panic began to set in she suddenly crashed to the floor, the abrupt movement jolted her, and she blinked twice, attempting to make sense of how she was now on the ground, with a cloud of the palest blonde hair strewn out in front of her.

While staring blankly ahead a pair of firm arms secured around her. Hermione wondered why she didn't panic but somewhere, in some currently inaccessible part of her brain, she must have recognised the smell,  _ his _ smell. Belatedly she realised he was talking into her hair, "...you're okay now, it's going to be okay…"

While Antonin was attempting to offer comfort there was clearly a note of question in his voice; Hermione raised her eyes to meet his stormy dark brown ones. "I'm okay Antonin, I just," she squinted as the pain in her head made itself known, and raising her hand to check for a lump she felt Antonin still as it came away bloody. Seeking to reassure him she grasped one of the arms that were holding her up. "It's just a flesh wound; I will be fine."

"You better be Granger," she looked up to find Yaxley staring at her from the other side of the corridor, he smiled when their eyes met.

Antonin tore his face away from the red liquid coating her fingers, not looking convinced by her words, Lucius made a sound beneath them, and Hermione started. Antonin looked down at the blonde dispassionately, "You should go Hermione."

She nodded against his chest but didn't move from his arms, he squeezed her tighter for a moment before dropping his arms completely, "Go now," he turned to face his friend, "You to Yax, we will accomplish more separately."

Reuben nodded and tore down the corridor in the same direction as Hermione, when they were out of Antonin's earshot she spoke, "Keep him safe?" she whispered urgently.

"Always," he smirked at her.

"And one more thing," she asked, suddenly, realising what fate had thrown in her path, he halted his progress. "Alecto Carrow," she said firmly.

Yaxley’s face split into the broadest grin she had ever seen, if she didn't feel certain he wasn't a danger to her, she would have been terrified. "Oh little duck, you always offer the nicest gifts."

* * *

_ Antonin had made himself scarce one afternoon, letting her know that Yaxley needed to talk to her, that was how Hermione found herself ensconced in the man’s study again, though this time she had forgone the offered drink. She was quiet as he told her about what happened to Umbridge, he gave ample detail, more than she would have ever needed and yet still somehow she felt like he was holding something back. She tilted her head regarding him and then it hit her. _

_ “You enjoyed it,” she said, interrupting his flow of words. _

_ Yaxley’s lips quirked a little, and he sat further back in his chair. “I am not sure ‘enjoy’ would be the word I would use,” he said measuredly, too measuredly. _

_ “Then what?” Hermione pressed. _

_ He shrugged though she didn't believe his reticence, he always knew what he was doing. She couldn't believe that the very word he wanted wasn’t resting on the tip of his tongue, he just didn't want to use it. _

* * *

Hermione made her way around the castle slowly, trying to account for all of those she needed to. She had run into Harry and Ron, both of whom seemed exhilarated by the ensuing battle, though they had scratches and scrapes aplenty between them, neither had any serious injuries, and she parted with them quickly after ascertaining they had no news on Luna. She had found Neville not long after, and his story was the same, having not seen her for at least thirty minutes. A sickly feeling began in Hermione’s stomach; she wondered if it was attributable to the time she spent with her little Ravenclaw friend, maybe she was becoming sensitive to premonitions, or more likely, it was simply gut instinct, either way, something was wrong.  _ You shouldn't have left her _ , her mind screamed, but Hermione tuned out the noise, there would be plenty of time for guilt later. She increased her pace to search the eastern part of the castle, up towards the classrooms that once held her beloved Transfiguration lessons.

As Hermione was rushing down yet another corridor, a sudden high pitch scream ripped through the air and Hermione snapped her neck towards the sound. At the far end of the passage was the crouched form of Fenrir Greyback, his face split into a feral grin as he regarded the floor in front of himself. As he moved to straighten out, Hermione slipped noiselessly to the side, hoping not be caught in his line of sight, and praying he wouldn't detect her smell. Her mind moved passed the initial surge of fear, and that was when she noticed the slumped form of Lavender Brown at his feet. Hermione involuntarily gasped as she took in the mess he had made of her throat and face, the girl’s wide eyes were held open but unseeing, an expression of terror still pinched into her face. Hermione felt bile rise in her throat.

She looked away, back into the monster’s face. His mouth was covered in blood,  _ Lavender's blood _ , it dripped from his unnaturally sharp teeth and was smeared all over his jaw. He turned his body to the side to look over his shoulder, and Hermione saw something that made her heart stop, he wasn’t alone, tucked behind him, secured by savage looking binding was Luna. Neither saw her as he stepped forward to kick Lavender's motionless body, before he secured her friend over his shoulder and stepped into a classroom, just beyond the turmoil he had left.

As soon as the door closed Hermione forced her legs to cooperate with her brain, rushing forward she fell to her knees at Lavender’s side, placing her fingers against the still girl’s wrist to check for a pulse that she already knew wouldn't be there. When the limb remained static Hermione placed it back down carefully, ripping a piece of her tattered jumper and Transfiguring it into a larger piece of fabric. Before she covered her she paused to use the gentlest cleansing charms she could think of on Lavender’s hair and face, no parent needed to see their child like that, and the exuberant girl would have hated the blood in her hair. Hermione reached forward to close Lavender’s eyes and softly levitated her to next to the wall. "You deserved so much more than this," she breathed.

Hermione wanted to brace herself for the upcoming fight but there was no time, any entrance she made was unlikely to intimidate the wolf in any case, so without a second thought she crashed the classroom door open. 

Greyback had Luna pinned against the wall, and he grinned at her as she entered. "I wondered when you would get here," he said with a feral growl. He acted as if she was no threat at all and continued wiping his bloody muzzle all over Luna's neck as he smelt her hair, he went to lift his wand in his dirty hand almost absently. Hermione made eye contact with her friend, her face looked serene but her eyes… Hermione knew she was terrified.

People associate anger with heat, Hermione thought absently, those that were overcome by rage were said to ‘see red’, but her vision was tinged white. She felt  _ nothing  _ of the hot fury she had experienced in the past, the rage that had compelled her to break Antonin's arm or lead Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest. She didn't feel hot at all, she felt cold, cold and calculating, and a dim nagging at the back of her mind seemed to be whispering that her limits were gone.

Hermione looked back at Luna’s wide eyes and raised her wand. " _ Sectumsempra. _ "

‘You have to mean it,’ echoed in her mind, and though this wasn’t an Unforgivable, it should have been. The wolf immediately slumped to the floor, and Hermione observed him dispassionately as she began to make out the series of cuts that were littered all over his huge body, the blood pooling in a steady trickle into his clothes revealing a morbid pattern. She levitated him from where he was pinning Luna's feet and flicked her wand to ensure his body hit the opposite wall with bone-cracking force.

As soon as Greyback fell again, Luna slumped down the wall and was overcome by tears, her entire torso shaking with the force of them. Hermione knelt in front of her, pulling her into her chest. "It's okay, it's okay,” she soothed, “I'm going to take care of it, just don't move ok?" Luna nodded weakly, and Hermione made her way to the other side of the room.

Everything was still tinged white; it felt good this not caring,  _ was this how the Death Eaters felt? _ Hermione could almost understand it if this is what they got out of it. She didn't feel any more powerful just...  _ Limitless. _

She didn't want to kill Fenrir, though she didn't care if he died, she wanted him to be  _ in pain, _ to realise what it felt like to be at the mercy of someone who viewed you as less than human. As she approached him, she discovered he was still lifeless,  _ well that wouldn't do _ .

" _ Reneverate. _ "

The werewolf rolled onto his back, sputtering and snarling as he looked up at her, his fierce eyes wide and tinged amber, the movement caused a fresh wave of blood to pool to the floor from his litany of cuts. As he went to speak Hermione kicked him, her small foot making contact with his exposed throat, she had never kicked anyone before, she was convinced it would have made little impact but it wasn't about that, he was already incapacitated by the myriad of cuts transforming his clothing into a Rorschach painting. No, this was for Lavender, who he had booted even after she was dead, he had given her no dignity, and she would spare none for him.

Hermione conjured binds, thick heavy ropes that snaked around Greyback’s broad form and held him to the floor, and then she was lost.  _ Totally lost _ . In the years that followed she would never be able to recount exactly what happened next, she was aware of her wand and even her limbs, moving and even distantly Luna screaming, but nothing else, nothing until a broad chest blocked her view.

Hermione was shifted backwards; bodily moved to the other side of the room until her eyes focused on Luna. Rabastan was crouched in front of her friend’s slumped form, his eyes almost glowing, she could hear a soft muttering, "I'm fine, it's not my blood, it's not mine, I'm fine…" as Luna attempted to talk him down from the brink. He wiped tear tracks from the blonde’s cheeks more delicately than she would have imagined him capable of.

Hermione made to speak but her vocal cords wouldn't cooperate, she looked up to find Rodolphus peering down at her, his eyes conveying concern. He must have been the one to move her away. A lump formed in her throat and Hermione moved to sheath her wand, becoming aware of the blisters that had formed on her hand from the death grip she had held it in. Her hands shook as she looked down, she was  _ covered _ in blood. 

_ It wasn't hers _ .

She made a choking noise, and Rodolphus mechanically raised his arms and placed them around her. Unable to overthink in her state Hermione leant forward against his solid chest soaking up the support that he was offering.

* * *

_ Rodolphus had insisted on being present at all of the planning meetings they had at the townhouse, and despite her initial hesitations, Hermione had agreed. Of the five Death Eaters she had contact with, he was at least temperate, most of the time, she hoped him being there would promote a more civil atmosphere, or at least not make it worse. _

_ The Lestranges had arrived and handed over the cup that had been, as she had suspected, located in their family vault. Hermione wasted no time in handing the ‘artefact’ straight over to Professor Snape, who had taken the cup away into another room dispose of it with the basilisk venom he had procured; she didn't ask from where he got it from, it was mostly likely a connection with a person she would not like to know. _

_ Rabastan had high-tailed it out of there to see Luna, and though Hermione didn't doubt he was desirous to see her friend, she was sensible enough to perceive that there might have been an element of pre-planning that left her in her present situation, alone in the room with Rodolphus. Resigned to this conversation having to happen at some point Hermione sat back in a comfortable chair and waited for him to begin. When she risked a quick glance from under her lashes at him, Rodolphus had settled into another chair, thought he sat on the edge of its cushioning. If she had to guess she would have said he looked nervous. Though his posture did seem a little more natural now he didn't have much of an audience when away from others he held himself a little less rigidly, he was far from slouching, but he didn't look uncomfortable. _

_ "Hermione when you asked for the cup, I requested a condition to its procurement that I would apply later, do you remember?" he asked gently, he wasn't rubbing it in, in fact, she thought he was possibly trying to build to it, so as to avoid an argument. _

_ "Yes," she was hesitant and slightly afraid of what this would be, but Hermione wouldn't lie, she had entered into the agreement with her eyes open. _

_ Rodolphus cleared his throat, "You will spend time with me when this is all over, enough time to see if there is a possibility that we might be able to establish some form of relationship. Whatever guise that may take. I understand you may never see me as a parent, but if you can get past some of my… undesirable past, we might be able to be... friends, at least." _

_ Hermione was silent as she tried to order her thoughts, he wanted time with her? One part of her mind was screaming about how untenable it was while the other was stuck in a loop of ‘is that all?’  _

_ "If the light win, and I think they will, you'll be in Azkaban," she said at last, and Rodolphus nodded. _

_ "Yes I am aware of that," he replied faintly. _

_ "Then how do you imagine this will happen?" she asked bemusedly. _

_ He sighed, "I can't see us being in prison forever, I know that sounds idealistic, but tougher minds were in charge of the Ministry when we were imprisoned before. Your Order can be ruthless when they want to be, but Kingsley Shacklebolt is no Bartemius Crouch Sr. I believe that there will be some parole scheme eventually." _

_ Hermione refreshed the tea as she leant back to mull over his words, maybe that was true, she hadn't allowed herself to think of the after, it had been too bleak, too frightening, even in the abstract. _

_ Rodolphus shifted and broke her train of thought. "Is it a bad thing to say I always wanted a daughter?" She looked up to find him regarding her carefully, his fingers clenched around his cup. "My whole life I was surrounded by boys, both women that I loved, loved someone else,” his cheeks flushed, and he averted his eyes. “I never wanted Meda like that... but... you know what I mean.” _

_ “Daughters always idolise their fathers, don't they? And I think rather selfishly I wanted that too.” _

_ Hermione set her cup down as she arranged and rearranged her fingers in her lap, “I idolise mine,” she said finally, and tried to ignore how Rodolphus winced at her choice of words. _

_ “I know you are struggling to come to terms with all of this, it's not easy for me either, but I think it's important for you to know that if I had known you existed, I would have brokered no argument, baulked at no obstruction, I would have had you in my life some way." _

_ His voice cracked as his eyes glazed and Hermione’s throat dried out. "And now?" _

_ "And now that I know who you are, well,” he rubbed a hand over his beard, “you're already the purest thing in my life. I would welcome an opportunity, any opportunity, for you to find a place for me in yours." _

_ Hermione felt tears pool in her eyes, and she looked at the floor, he didn't push, he had said what he wanted to say and seemed to respect that she would need time to assimilate. After a painful silence Hermione nodded, just one tilt of the head, she would think about it, she couldn't offer anymore. _

_ With the tension lifted Rodolphus apparently wanted to try for some conversation and Hermione didn't have the heart to cut him off.  "So, Antonin," he said with a slight cough and Hermione fought down the urge to roll her eyes, though she welcomed the change in subject, and the lighter tone he was using, though possibly not the choice of theme. She managed to give him something of a watery smile. "He is old enough to be your father," he continued. _

_ Hermione faltered, it would always come back to that. "He's younger than my Dad... and… and I suppose you as well," she finished a little lamely. _

_ Rodolphus leant forward, his elbows resting on the tops of his knees. "I'm not looking to replace him you know, your father." Hermione nodded but kept her eyes averted. "Is he, has he been a good father to you?" _

_ Hermione felt the pain she had come to associate with any talk of Mark and Jean Granger, her father had been nothing more or less than the perfect father, for her. "Yes,” she replied, her mind once again lingering on wiry curls and an easy going smile. “He’s the best; I love him very much." _

_ Rodolphus looked anguished, and she felt sorry for him, but it was in the abstract, she couldn't even express how much she missed her dad, to say anything else would be a bald face lie, and she was just about at her quota for those. _

_ Rodolphus coughed to clear his throat and began in the same lighter tone, if it sounded a little false neither of them mentioned it." Anyway, Antonin maybe a few years younger than me but he's older than your uncle." _

_ "Who is in love with a girl younger than me?" Hermione pressed back. _

_ "About that,” Rodolphus shifted in his seat, “she is your friend, yes?" _

_ "Yes," Hermione tensed at the mention of Luna, Rodolphus might have some claim on her now, but Luna was her family by choice, and she was very protective of her. _

_ "Do you think she seems a little," he began, and then seemed to spot her stiffened form, he raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "don't take offence, I only meant she is a little… different." _

_ "Rabastan can be... Somewhat intense," Hermione countered, raising her own concern. _

_ "I... I don't want to make this situation any harder than it is. You don't need another reason to hate us. I don't want him to hurt her," he explained. _

_ "Luna will be fine," Hermione said, waving an arm dismissively. _

_ "She seems a little delicate," Rodolphus responded incredulously. _

_ "I honestly believe, if properly motivated, Luna could kill us all, with ease, and probably with a serene look on her face. I would be much more concerned about Rabastan if I were you." _

_ Rodolphus raised her an eyebrow at her before barking out a laugh that sounded like it had been repressed for the longest time. _

* * *

Hermione’s breath was coming out in painful gasps, and her fists were clenching, Rodolphus petted her hair awkwardly, trying for soothing words but seeming to struggle. As uncomfortable as he was Hermione didn't care about his hesitations, she needed someone, and he was there, that was enough for now.

* * *

Hermione was covered in Greyback’s blood and barely coherent when she dropped down next to Fred’s body. She put a dirty hand on George’s back and said nothing while it began to vibrate with his choked sobs. Fred’s face was pulled into an almost smile; there was something poetic in that Hermione thought bitterly, he would have been amused by it, facing death with a grin, Hermione couldn't bring herself to feel anything other than numb. George leant into her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, pouring everything she couldn’t verbalise into the tight grip of her arms.

* * *

Hermione was with Ron and Luna when the snake-like, rasping hiss of Voldemort could be heard reverberating around the vaulted ceilings; their time was up. His taunting rhetoric ignited the ever-present panic inside her, and it was a rough abrasive to the pain and devastation inside the castle walls.

When the voice finally ended Hermione whipped her head around, realisation coming too late. "Where the fuck is Harry?" she screeched, and Ron's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Yes, I fucking swore Ronald, where is he?"

A dark blur moved towards the front of the hall, and the three bedraggled students moved after their friend on instinct.

"Harry James Potter," she called, and he stopped dead, turning round to face them. She knew tears were falling again, just like she knew where he was going, they didn't have to ask,  _ they all knew _ .

"Please Harry, let me come with you," she pleaded, stepping forward.  _ He couldn't do this alone _ .

"We both will," Ron said, firmly stepping forward next to her, wrapping his arm around her waist securely. "We said we would stick together, till the end right?"

"Not this time," Harry said flatly, his eyes pleading for their understanding. Hermione moved to step forward, and Luna gripped her arm, preventing her from getting any further, Harry turned round once more. "I... I love you, both you.”

Ron moved his arm to Hermione's shoulders, "We know mate, we know.”

* * *

_ "Harry is a Horcrux." _

_ The ornate plate Hermione was carrying dropped to the floor, she watched it as it fell, almost in slow motion, and didn't even flinch as the sound of the smash rang out in the largely empty space. "What?" she replied, her voice barely there. _

_ The Potions Master wiped a hand over his face. "Miss Granger sit down," he commanded, and Hermione moved at a crawling pace to the nearest chair, more falling back than sitting down. "Dumbledore told me before he died," he continued and Hermione shot him a sharp look, which he returned. "Fine, before I killed him, satisfied? We don't have all bloody day Granger," he snapped. _

_ "Fine, carry on." _

_ "You're too kind," he sneered. "He believed there was a good chance that the night Voldemort went to Godric’s Hollow, when he tried to kill Potter he inserted a piece of his soul into him, not intentionally of course. There is no way to be certain, but it makes a twisted sort of sense." _

_ "You believe it's true?" Hermione asked tentatively, dreading his response. _

_ "Yes." _

_ She felt the last shred of hope leave her at his declaration, Severus Snape was many things but nearly at the top of that list was smart, if he believed it, there was no reason for her to doubt it. Then the nagging feeling that had been chewing away at her for months came to mind, and she knew, it was true, all of this, all of this hoop jumping for this. _

_ "So this is what it has all been about, everything he has had to go through, everything we have all had to go through, all so he could die at the end?" _

_ Professor Snape was silent for a long time. "Yes." _

_ Hermione felt anger course through her blood, so many lies, so much betrayal, Harry might never even have known. "And I suppose you've tried to look for another solution have you? I expect you've been working day and night to find an alternative, we all know how much you love Harry I bet-" _

_ "THAT IS ENOUGH," he bellowed at her so loudly the chandelier shook, it was enough to stop her vitriolic stream but not enough to ease her glower, Hermione was enraged, and Dumbledore wasn't here anymore only the man in front of her was, he was her only outlet. _

_ The room grew silent; even the distant birdsong seemed to have paused in the face of the simmering tension. All that could be heard was the slowing of her panting breath, Hermione willed herself to calm down, she needed to think, she couldn't do that angry. _

_ "When I was ten, I met a little girl of the same age called Lily Evans, and that day, that pure, innocent day, changed my whole life. There were many others that followed, decisions that were made that changed the course I was on, but that was the very beginning." Hermione felt her face slip from anger to bafflement, Professor Snape's demeanour had changed, he had forced himself back into the chair and was staring off into the middle distance like he could somehow see some ghost of his memories in the space beyond her chair. _

_ "We went to Hogwarts together; she was the first magical child I met, the first... The first anything." _

_ "What happened?" she asked hesitantly. _

_ "A lot, and nothing much at all, depending on whose side you view the story from. Ultimately we began to drift apart, we… I said something stupid, we quarrelled, and our friendship never recovered from that argument," he said blankly. _

_ "Surely you could have put it right if it was important to you Sir," she blurted and Hermione felt her hand reflective jump up to cover her mouth, she had spoken completely without thinking. _

_ The headmaster glared daggers at her, but a moment later he dropped the expression with a sigh, "I tried, she wasn't… she didn't believe that it was a forgivable situation." _

_ "I can't imagine Harry doing something that I wouldn't forgive him for," Hermione muttered, more to herself than to her audience, but he heard her. _

_ Professor Snape fixed her with a steady gaze, "Miss Granger,” he said, in the softest tone she had ever heard him use, “I am inclined to believe that is completely true." _

_ Their eyes locked for a moment and she tried in vain to work out the emotion lingering at the corners of his expression though eventually, the purpose of their conversation came back to the front of her mind. "I'm sorry Sir, I don't understand what this has to do with Harry." _

_ "Lily Evans fell in… she went on to marry James Potter," he raised his eyes to smirk at her, but there was no fire behind his eyes. _

_ "You were… Harry's mum?" _

_ He nodded, "I owe her something, so I will do my best for Potter, not that he deserves it. He needs to know about this before the battle, but he is very unlikely to listen to me, as much as everyone says he may have his mother's eyes he would have been better off inheriting her common sense." _

_ Hermione agreed, too stunned to do anything else; she wondered whether she would always associate Yaxley's home with some of the most painful conversations of her life. She would have thought that the Death Eater would have grown annoyed with all of the shouting and dramatic revelations under his roof, though that did not seem to be the case. When she tried to subtly feel him out over dinner the week before, he said he was having the best time of his life and she believed him, the nutcase. _

_ As they were wrapping up their conversation he seemed to get nervous, not in any way that would have indicated anxiety in a normal person. Severus Snape was the most emotionally repressed person Hermione had ever known, but he was gripping his knees and sucking in air through his crooked teeth, he seemed almost to radiate tension. _

_ Steeling herself for his ire she attempted to put him out of his apparent misery, "professor, was there something else?" _

_ "Yes," he replied looking at the floor. "Yaxley mentioned that you have a scar on your arm following... After Malfoy Manor. I wondered if I might take a look at it." _

_ Hermione stiffened immediately, but managed to bite back the urge to ask him what he was about, he wasn't the type to want to gawk at her, and he was hardly in a position to comment on physical imperfections. Falteringly she rolled up her jumper and moved the bandage that Luna had helped her with. _

_ He stepped forward and grasped her wrist with the lightest possible touch, she saw his eyes widen he took it all in, "It would have to be that word," he said as barely a whisper. _

_ "Professor?" she asked bemused by his response. _

_ "Nothing, Miss Granger, nothing at all." _

* * *

Hermione stood on the front steps of Hogwarts, the vast doors wide open behind them as she stared into the mouth of hell. Her friends were beaten and bloodied; they were all too young for this fight. She watched the black procession of Death Eaters heading towards the school with Voldemort at its helm, a weeping Hagrid caught the attention of the broken child army, cradled within the gamekeeper's arms was a lifeless Harry.

By this point Hermione felt she had a little experience of the worst kind of pains; emotional pains, like when friends shunned you for not fitting in, physical pains like being attacked by all manner of creatures, fighting Death Eaters. Pains that were something of both Obliviating her parents, Ron leaving, finding out Luna was missing, Malfoy Manor… the list went on and on.

All of that was nothing,  _ entirely nothing _ , to the great chasm that opened in her heart at the sight in front of her. She dropped to her knees, her legs no longer able to support her weight. Harry, like Luna, was family,  _ her chosen family _ . He had been the sibling she had never had, a brother in all but name and now he was... Dead.

_ What did any of it matter now? _

Voldemort began to taunt them, but she barely listened to one word in five, she had long lost the taste for his pontificating address, let him gloat, she wouldn't do him the courtesy of listening.

Staring across the great divide, she spotted the Death Eaters, her friends, the rest of her family. Antonin was staring at her so intently his gaze felt like it was brushing against her skin. Hermione watched struck still as he gritted his teeth before his eyes narrowed, they flashed, a movement she only just caught before he looked as if he would take a step, Yaxley gripped his arm, just as Luna had done to her earlier. She could see the Northern wizard talking frantically into his friend's ear, but Antonin never broke eye contact with her, by the set of his mouth she knew he had already made up his mind on whatever planned action he had come up with.

He began mouthing something, over and over, but Hermione could barely concentrate to work it out, she could see his mounting desperation, but the words wouldn't come. As she began to feel blood collect on her knees, she was suddenly dragged from the floor, pulled upright, and stood in front of Ron, who wrapped his arms around her middle to keep her up. He moved his mouth to her ear, "He is saying he will keep you safe, just stay strong," he whispered.

It took everything she had left to nod at him across the divide.

* * *

From the jaws of despair to the weight of disbelief, Hermione stood back, no longer trusting her sanity as Harry suddenly jumped from Hagrid's grasp.

_ He was alive? _

Voldemort and Harry moved into the middle of the no man's land, circling each other like prowling cats.

Considering the length of the battle, the length of the war, the amount of lives lost, families destroyed, and people ruined, it all ended rather quickly, unbelievably quickly. Harry's curse prevailed, and Voldemort fell to the dirty stone floor, with a dull thud, like any other wizard, at any other time.

But the nightmare wasn't over.


	24. Chapter 24

Antonin had long thought himself immune to feeling any kind emotional response to combat situations, though admittedly that was before he had found himself in love, with a witch that although brilliant, was not built for fighting. He had worried about Hermione from the moment she had left the townhouse, watching Potter and Weasley leave with her gave him no comfort, she had gotten hurt on their watch before, and he  _ knew _ she would lay down her life to protect them. He would never admit to it but seeing Luna clasp her hand did help, a little. He knew those girls would do anything before letting the other get hurt. But best intentions were just that; they weren't guarantees.

Antonin had paced the sun room with increasingly frantic steps, waiting for the inevitable summons, when it came, he and Yaxley were at Hogsmeade in less than a minute. From that point, everything happened in a blur. It had been a long time since any of them had been involved in such a large-scale action, this war, for the most part, had been conducted in the shadows. The biggest battle Antonin had faced had not been the bloody defeat of his enemy, but holding onto the will to protect his sanity, and when the end came, he faced the biggest test he had yet had to his mental health.

He stood with the Death Eater forces, headed by the Dark Lord, moving back towards the castle with a dead Harry Potter. Antonin had known this was a possible outcome; it was why he had  _ insisted _ they kept their betrayal a secret. He had been stealthily taking out masked figures all day, but he had not revealed himself, solely because of the chance this would happen. He had believed that the light  _ could _ win, even wished for it inside his mind, but Potter was just a boy, going up against an army, it would have been foolish not to have a contingency plan. Not that he had much sympathy for the side of the light in general, he regarded them coldly; he would never wish to be a part of their ranks, his  _ Master _ was the only thing that hand changed. If he had made his transfer of allegiances known he would have been killed first, he would have been no use to her then.

As he stood next to Yaxley, he got the first look at Hermione he’d had seen he found her in the corridor earlier, lifted against the wall, having the breath throttled out of her by Lucius Malfoy. He watched her now unable to breathe as she saw Potter's body, realisation hitting her like a physical blow as she collapsed to the ground. Her face and upper body were caked in blood, it didn't look like hers, but there was  _ a lot  _ of it. Her jumper had been singed and slashed, opening up the collar where he could see the purple bruising left by Malfoy earlier that day, clear against her lightly tanned skin, even from all of this distance.

Antonin forced himself to look into her eyes, and what he saw had him instinctively move to step forward, she looked so despondent, so  _ broken _ , if he hadn't seen her look dead at Malfoy Manor, he was sure it would have been the worst thing he had ever seen in his life. A firm hand held him back, Yaxley gripped him securely, and lowered his head to his ear. "Don't be an idiot Antonin, you wouldn't make it three steps before you were brought down, you would be no use to her then. Keep your head." Reuben rushed the words out, but Antonin struggled to process them as he regarded her crushed form.

He began furiously mouthing his earlier promises to keep her safe, and he watched her, willing her to understand, but her mind was too clouded. She returned his gaze blankly until she was roughly pulled up and into the chest of Weasley, who began whispering to her frantically. Antonin’s fists clenched as he noted the death grip the boy had on her waist, but as he chanced to look up again, he realised against his expectations that the boy was trying to pass his words on. Antonin nodded once in thanks, a move that the boy didn't return, though their eyes met, if only for a moment, it was the most civil exchange they had managed to date.

Antonin’s mind was reeling, he had  _ promised _ he would keep her safe, and now he was not confident he could make good on that. He looked across the assembled weary fighters; she would be one of the first the Lord would want, he had a good chance of claiming her, or at least one of them did, between the four of them.

_ But for how long? _ What would he be commanded to do if he had her,  _ would that be worse? _ As much as the thought made him sick to his stomach,  _ he would sooner see her dead than a broken shell _ ; he knew he wouldn't be able to snuff out her fire, even with a wand held to his head.

Antonin looked back to face her, bore his eyes into hers, offering what comfort he could. They would get through this; there was no other option.

* * *

The Dark Lord's body had barely hit the floor before he was in cuffs, he doubted his former Master had even gone cold, if he was ever warm, that was. The Aurors were there in seconds, almost as if they had been waiting on the sidelines to see how the battle would conclude. Antonin sneered at them; he remembered this moment from what felt like a lifetime ago, harder men than this had come for him then, ones that despite their differences in allegiance, had earned his respect. These whelps, willing to follow whichever leader held the crown, they held no intimidation for him.

Hermione had scarcely got to his side before he was kicked to his knees, and she roughly pushed the man away, the guard seemed to go to protest, but she had been followed by Luna who fixed him with a look that had Antonin questioning just what the little witch was capable of. They exchanged a few words, the little witches and the finely robed officers. Antonin watched as they took in the girls tattered clothing, and blood splattered skin, he was slighting appeased by young boys looking shamefaced, and so they should, in their pristine armour.

They turned away for a moment, and Hermione rushed to his side, time as ever was against them. Her eyes swam with tears as she fell in front of him, Antonin had too much to say, so much that he wanted just to think while he looked at her face,  _ what could have happened if she had been born at another time? What if he could have convinced her to leave the country? _

None of that mattered now.

Antonin again fought against the emotions whirling within him to face her, he had too many memories of her like this, bloodied and beaten, disheartened and desperate. He wanted to cling to the images of her smiles, her soft laugh, the way her hair looked in the breeze as they sat in the garden at the townhouse, he _needed_ to start compiling those visions if he was going to survive where he was going.

"Antonin I," she began, her hands moving to rest against his chest and he felt a fresh wave of rage directed at the bindings that secured his hands. It was the most effective form of torture he had ever been subjected to, to have her so near and not be able to touch her.

Antonin interrupted her, "I want you to go to my house, it's under fidelus charm, you will be safe there," he leant forward to kiss her forehead, the most he could do in his present state. He could barely taste her skin beneath the ravages of war that lined its surface, but it was enough, it would have to be.

"But what about-"

"There isn't time,” he interrupted again, “You have nowhere to go, let me... Let me do this," he implored. Thankfully she seemed to sense his anxiety and nodded faintly, the slight action causing the tears that were pooled in her eyes to cascade down her cheeks. Antonin’s fists clenched reflexively with the desire to track the pads of his thumbs across her face. "Reach into my pocket there's a piece of parchment there."

Hermione did as instructed and he felt a wave of relief, it wasn't much, but he could do this for her. She folded the parchment and put inside her clothes, moving forward to press their foreheads together. "I love you, Antonin," she whispered against his face.

Antonin suppressed the lump in his throat to reply but it was too late, he was unceremoniously pulled to his feet and spun around, not able to face her, not able to say goodbye.

It took four of them to apparate him away.

* * *

After being dragged from Hermione’s side he was taken to the Ministry, the room he was placed in was an adjoining one to the Minister's main office, Antonin expected they would want to act quickly, sending them back to hell as soon as they had their orders from the new Minister.

The Aurors dealing with them were surprising loose-tongued about the ensuing madness happening outside. Antonin had only been in the room a couple of hours when he overheard them say that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named interim Minister for Magic, and a little while later they were talking again, he heard a casual reference to _ immediate imprisonment _ . Antonin sucked in a breath, he hadn't expected anything different, but hearing it confirmed made his blood run cold.  _ Would it be harder this time? Now that he had been with her? Would remembering her taunt him or save him? Was it better to give into the madness this time? _

Antonin looked around at the other Death Eaters in the room, all of them shackled to chairs like himself, their number was severely depleted, he had taken out a good few himself. There were only around fifteen of them in the room, most of the inner circle were gone now. He looked over at Lucius; they must have found him as they were clearing through the castle. The blond wizard was slumped forward, apparently unconscious, blood stained his cheeks and was matted into his hair. He had to tell Rodolphus that he had taken care of him, dealing with Malfoy had been Lestrange's responsibility, but all bets had been off when he saw him in that corridor. Antonin had wanted to rip the aristocratic prat apart but he settled for something much more poetic, he had laughed as he cast the curse that would irrevocably blind the wizard, but it hadn’t been enough, while effective the curse had been medical in nature, it hadn't left nearly enough devastation in Antonin's view. He remedied that with some severe slicing to the man’s face. Lucius had watched and done nothing while Hermione was tortured, he had remained motionless as she screamed till her throat gave out, he had observed as she twitched into near madness, and now he would not see again. Antonin took a twisted pleasure in knowing that a man, so  _ appreciative _ of beauty, would now no longer be able to look upon it. For Lucius, this was likely a harder fate than death.

Unexpectedly the door crashed open, though no one in the room even flinched, Severus Snape was brought in, and roughly pushed into the chair opposite Antonin, and secured in the manacles they used for trials. The Aurors moved away, and Snape sneered after them, one of uniformed wizards was rubbing his arm pointedly, while shooting glares at the headmaster. Yaxley must have caught the movement as well as he started laughing, "Resisting arrest Snape, really?"

"Well, after I realised I was going to be taken here, and then probably shipped straight to Azkaban I assumed it might be quite a while before I had any fun," he said, utterly devoid of any emotion, "and I had the great _misfortune_ of teaching that _feckless_ _boy_ a few years ago. The idea that he is responsible for anything more than fetching coffee is miraculous, the concept that he was sent to apprehend me was frankly, insulting."

Antonin looked Snape over; he had never been his favourite person and yet he had learned to at least tolerate his presence in that last few weeks. The pale wizard didn't look to be in any better shape than the rest of the room. "What's the word out there?" Antonin asked hesitantly, and he felt more than saw the rest of the room move to listen.

Snape sighed, "Immediate imprisonment for an indeterminable amount of time, without parole, seems to be the call from the mob at the moment." The room fell silent, each left to contemplate their regrets while the world celebrated around them.

* * *

Hours later they began ‘processing’ them, Azkaban was supposedly being  _ made ready _ for their arrival, whatever in Merlin's name that meant, so one by one they were taken to be searched and changed into the all too familiar prison garb. They would spend the night there, in the Ministry holding cells, the current plan to move them after the Minister had spoken to them.

Various voices had drifted through the wall over the course of the day, it seemed  _ many _ people needed to see the new Minister for something or other, Antonin had been paying little attention, but suddenly he heard a voice that was achingly familiar. He wouldn’t have believed he had really heard it, if the sound hadn’t made four other heads snap up.

It was definitely Hermione, and she was angrier than he had ever heard her. In the quiet time that had passed since they had been brought to the room, Antonin had wondered if she had been told of the plans for immediate imprisonment, it would appear she had.

"How many of the Wizengamot had links to Voldemort Minister?" she shouted, the first clear sentence to permeate the wall.

"What?" the Minister replied, "Hermione, I have  _ no _ information to show that  _ any  _ of those from the Wizengamot seats had links, and even if proof existed, it would be buried." His deep voice came in reply, resonating around the room and Antonin didn't bother to hold back a snort, if the man believed that he was simple and had no place standing where he was. If he thought that patronising tone of voice he employed was going to do  _ anything _ to placate  _ his witch  _ he was downright barmy.

"He was being funded somehow,” Hermione argued passionately. “He might have had an army of people, but most of the inner circle had their assets frozen during their imprisonment, so that would suggest  _ other funds _ . If it exists Kingsley and I find it, I hope you're prepared for total social disorder. These are bleak times for the Ministry; it will take a long while for people to trust the government again after its behaviour during the war. It would be a shame for  _ all _ of that to get off to a bumpy start with scandals printed all over the papers," she seethed, her voice was no longer as loud, but Antonin could hear her determination just as clearly.

To his great surprise, the Minister didn't sound angry with her, if anything, by his tone, he appeared placating, "Hermione I understand your  _ frustration _ , I know you feel you have a…  _ relationship _ ... with them. But they are killers, ruthless and cruel; they belong in Azkaban, not among the rest of us."

"He's right Hermione," Potter spoke softly, and Antonin felt his guts clench. He had been worried about this, he knew they would try and get to her now, and twist her mind, make her view everything that had happened differently, there would be no voice in his defence. Apart from possibly Luna, and she was unlikely to be much help, she would be seen as ‘compromised,’ the same as Hermione.

When Hermione spoke again, her voice was like ice, cold and sharp. "You  _ will _ help me with this Harry James Potter, I have loved you since I was eleven, and done  _ everything _ possible for you as my friend. I have put my _ entire _ life on pause for you and this war. You  _ will _ do this for me, you  _ will _ help me, as a _ small _ token of your returned affection, or you will  _ never _ see me again, do you understand?"

Any response from Potter was drowned out by the sound of more people entering the Minister's office, angrier voices added to the mix and it took a while for Antonin to filter the noise to discern individual cadences.

"Ah," Snape said looking up to meet his eyes, he looked uncomfortable, and considering the wizard barely showed emotion at the best of times this was hardly likely to be good. "Before I left Hogwarts I overheard some of the fallout from the battle; it would appear that Hermione’s rushing to Dolohov did not go totally unnoticed by those present, and Weasley lost his temper, needless to say, her paternity is no longer a closely guarded fact."

"Fuck," Rodolphus muttered.

"Quite," Snape drawled, "it would appear Mr Longbottom has just entered the Minister's office."

The captives went silent again as they tried to pick up the voices from the adjoining room.

"Did you know?" A male voice shouted, thick with emotion, "all that time, when you comforted me after the breakout did you know?"

Antonin raised his eyebrows at Snape in silent question, the man nodded, so this was Longbottom. Antonin's booted foot twitched with the desire to re-break his arm.

"No Neville, I didn't know," Hermione's voice was weak, and fear gripped him.

"When did you find out?" he pressed, his voice falling away.

"A few weeks ago," she replied, the words sounding as if they had dragged from her, Antonin could feel the choked sobs in the back of her throat and closed his eyes.

There was calm and then quietly, so gently they barely heard it, the boy spoke again. "He tortured my parents, him and his brother, and now I find out they are  _ your _ father and  _ your _ uncle?"

"I know," Hermione replied, it was clear she was crying now, her emotion having an effect on more than one in the room. Rabastan looked vaguely green; his hands clawed at the ends of the arms of the wooden chair he was in, seemingly desperate to get up, to do something.

When Longbottom spoke again, his voice was rage filled. "You say  _ you know _ but do you understand what I'm saying? All these Death Eaters hanging around you, it's like I don't know who you are anymore."

"Well, I don't know me either," she replied despondently.

"They will be in prison now, whatever happened… you can get on with your life, forget about them, no one will blame you, Hermione, you can’t pick your parents. We can put all of this behind us, all of it. You just need to promise that you won’t see them.”

"It doesn't work like that," Hermione responded quietly.

"Of course it does."

He saw Rodolphus face shutter at the attack she was under, Antonin had always known she would face hardship from her association with them but somehow hearing it first-hand made it so much worse, she was going to be all alone.

"She sounds, different, harder," Yaxley whispered.

Rodolphus raised his tired face, "She killed Greyback."

Antonin started, "What?!"

Rabastan sighed, Rodolphus didn't look capable of speech at the moment. "He had Luna against a wall, by the time we got there she… she wasn't really in control of herself anymore; there wasn't much left of him. She didn't just kill him; I'm not even sure death was her aim, she had taken him apart. She incapacitated him first, and Luna said she brought him back around before she started casting."

_ Well, that explained the blood. _

"Well, if anyone doubted her paternity," Yaxley joked.

From the look on Dolph's face if they ever got out of here the first thing he was going to do was hex Reuben into oblivion.

"Good riddance," Antonin said into the charged atmosphere. "She's not going to cope with that well."

"She will be okay Dolohov," Snape spoke, his tone oddly soft, he turned to face him, Snape was idly staring at the ceiling Antonin felt hot rage sweep through him at his presumption to understand Hermione better than he did.

"I don't know what you look so worried about, you'll be out of here soon enough," he spat at the former headmaster, "If you  _ try _ to fucking woo her Snape-"

"Woo her?" the Potions Master drawled with a sneer, "the girl  _ screaming _ at the most important man in Wizarding Britain on your worthless behalf?" he snorted. "I believe I'm pretty well versed in identifying a futile cause by now, and contrary to popular belief I am not a masochist," his spat bitterly.

It wasn't lost on any of those present that Snape did not deny having feelings for Hermione, only that he didn't plan to act on them. A slamming door brought their attention back to the meeting in the next room.

"He'll come round Hermione," at the sound of Luna's voice Rabastan made a whimpering sound, and Dolph turned to him as much as he was able.

"They will be ok Rab; they'll have each other."

"Will she?” Rab questioned, “She was so scared, I've never seen her like that. Not even when she was held prisoner at the manor."

"Fair trials and allowable representation," Hermione's clear voice stated.

"Do you  _ know _ what they have done?" Kingsley asked incredulously.

"Yes Minister, I understand  _ perfectly _ , though I might ask what have you done?" Antonin sucked in a breath, "I beg your pardon," the harsh tones of Kingsley Shacklebolt came through the wall.

"What have you done, during the war?"

"What I did I did for the-"

"The greater good, I'm aware" Hermione replied in a voice that sounded too much like Snape’s for anyone's comfort.

There was total silence in both rooms until Hermione spoke again, "Trails Minister, _ I insist _ , it's the  _ least  _ this Ministry can do for me."

* * *

Unbelievably Hermione's shouts and protests had won out, reluctantly, Kingsley had declared that they would all receive a trial. She couldn't get everything she wanted, however, Hermione hadn't been allowed to see any of them, and they were to be transferred to Azkaban while awaiting their promised trial. Antonin knew that without her they would have been left to rot, he doubted many of the remaining Order would lose sleep over a broken promise to a group of Death Eaters.

After a night in the holding cells, they were transported to the cursed rock, the sight of the prison made them all recoil. Even with the absence of the dementors floating around, the place was foul. Antonin was kicked into a cell, and he idly wondered if this was the one he had been placed in before, with nothing to distinguish one soulless box from another he would never know.

Once he was sure the guards had gone, he moved his hand to his chest and pulled out the slips of parchment he had managed to conceal, the first two were the pictures he carried of Hermione always, the images that had captivated him years earlier. The third was new, though undoubtedly the most precious, a picture of him and Hermione looking up into the camera, her head rested on his chest as they laid back in bed. She had said she had never used a magical camera before, and Antonin had borrowed one to show her, she had been surprised when he had picked it up from the side of the bed before breakfast one day, without warning, his eyes crinkled in amusement in the frame while her eyes widened in surprise before she burst out laughing, burying her face into his shoulder to hide.

She had left it on his side of their bed the day of the final battle, on the back was a simple note in her practical script;  _ Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness, it would still be dear. _

Her message was clear; she would wait, she would try to get him out... He just had to hold on.

_ My name is Antonin Alexei Dolohov, I was born in Sochi in 1956, I moved to Britain in 1961, her name is Hermione Jean Granger, and she was born on the 19th of September 1979, and she will be waiting. My name is Antonin Alexi Dolohov… _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote on the back of the picture is from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte


	25. Chapter 25

Severus Snape POV

Severus had spent the whole of Hermione's academic career sneering at her uncontainable desire for learning, ridiculing her eager attitude, and mimicking her apparent love of the sound of her own voice. He had called her a know-it-all, despite knowing how easily those words could etch into a person's psyche. He knew  _ exactly _ how those words hurt her, he had pointedly ignored the taunts of Draco and his cronies and treated her with total derision.

Almost every instance of his cruelty came to the forefront of his mind, as he sat, bound to a chair, in a large courtroom in the bowels of the Ministry. Severus watched her, little Hermione Granger, as was, a woman now. A woman that held her head high as she sat, dutifully, next to the wizard she had appointed to defend him,  _ undeserving him _ , at his trial, a trial that her yelling had ensured he would get. Hermione had traded the pathetically small amount of kudos, all she was ever likely to get from her participation in the war, and used it for them.

Severus could have lived all of his days again, and still come out confused by the turn of events. In the course of his existence he had only read people wrong a handful of times, he was acutely aware now of how much he had underestimated the bushy haired witch, and how he would never be able to repay her for the loyalty she had shown him. Loyalty that had come entirely free,  _ he had certainly never earned it _ , loyalty that she had suffered for, both through scarring and torment, and now from the growing mistrust of society. Severus knew a thing or two about fealty, as a man with two masters for most of his life, he had tolerated watching it be measured and tested daily, and yet here was this woman that had earned his in return. As well as his trust, his respect, and she had done it by giving him hers first, without ever asking him for anything, without even expecting reciprocation.

The trials were to be staggered over the course of a few months; his was drawn first. Severus had been brought from Azkaban after his holding there had continued for a month. His previous stay had been just a brief, having only been hauled to the North Sea prison at the end of the first wizarding war for a few weeks before Dumbledore had managed to secured his trial,  _ a trial he never secured for Sirius _ , he could still hear Hermione muttering in his head. Secured at the front in his chair Hermione approached and they had a brief moment to speak before the three ring circus began. Hermione looked at him searchingly, no doubt looking for signs of mistreatment or madness.

"Cease your infernal pestering," Severus hissed, "I am fine, as far as I know,  _ we are all fine, _ " he drawled. Kindness did not come naturally to him, but he tried, for her. Her steadfast resolve nearly wavered then, Severus had never doubted her strong affection for the Russian wizard, but she was no simpleton. That man had spent far too much of his lifetime incarcerated; she was right to worry about the scarring on his psyche, and his soul. Severus had seen them, the other detainees, albeit briefly. The new barred doors on the cells allowing him to meet eyes, as he was roughly pushed down the corridor. There was no rushing to the bars, no whispering words to pass on, Severus would have dropped down dead from shock if there had been. They may have been imprisoned and diminished, but they were all still the men they had been born to be. Antonin had shifted so he could see him, there had been enough message in that.

The trial was long and rather arduous, it was clear that the Wizengamot were using him as a test case, as none of the current bench occupants had witnessed the previous Death Eater trials. In preparation Severus had submitted his memories to the court, they had been taken by a rather overzealous court official, who seemed to take  _ great pleasure _ in the malicious ripping of thoughts from his mind. There had been arguing over what to do with him, ridiculously the entitled on the circular benches seemed torn between reimprisonment and some kind of award, Severus wasn't sure which disgusted him more.

Eventually, after three days of pontificating from people Severus wouldn't have spat at if they were on fire, all charges against him were dropped. Hermione stood by his side, uncommonly stoic, as Aurors led him through different departments. He was given back his wand, along with the other possessions he had at the time of his arrest; he was issued his official pardon, which was rubber stamped by the Minister himself, and his record was expunged. When it was all done, Severus shook Hermione off; he wanted,  _ no he needed _ to be alone. She seemed to understand, stepping away from her place at his elbow, before he lashed out, turning and averting her eyes as he apparated away.

Severus saw the little mask of indifference she had been wearing all day fall off her face as the Ministry passageways blurred away, he wouldn't know it, not for weeks, but that act of failed empathy on his behalf would haunt him for years.

* * *

Severus was entirely numb for the first two days. He had made his way to Spinner's End, a dwelling he hated down to the very last crumbling brick. He had nowhere else to go; he had not anticipated living this long. The memories of the crushing powerlessness he felt in the dilapidated house, while still a child, dragged all of his pain to the surface. He was drunk for the next two weeks, with only brief moments of lucidity.

After some time Hermione came and found him, Severus never asked how she located the house, it didn't seem to matter somehow. He opened the door reluctantly one evening, after an infuriating persistent knocking, to find her shivering in the hammering rain, standing on his dingy porch. Her mane of hair was stuck to her forehead, and her jacket soaked straight through. With a long-suffering sigh, Severus retreated within and left the door open for her. He heard it secured shut while he was in the kitchen. He wordlessly made two cups of tea, placing one at the beaten up, round oak dining table, and roughly gestured with his hands, Hermione moved to sit, and he collected his cup. She performed some quick drying spells over herself, and they finished their drinks in silence, the room consumed with the sound of the rainfall lashing against the small house. When she eventually put her cup down, she looked up to face him for the first time since her arrival; Severus expected her admonishment, her rightful ire at his lack of thanks for all she had done for him. None followed. Ruefully, Severus thought that he should be beginning to realise that Hermione never lived up to his expectations, she exceeded them, every single one. 

"The Malfoy's," she said at last, "their trials are over."

Severus ran a bony finger around the lip of his cooling cup, letting the movement calm him. He had known they were next, had overheard it spoken of at his hearing. He knew they had treated people badly, Hermione, in particular, had suffered at their hands, but to a degree, they had been the only family he had known for most of his life. Lucius was an utter bastard, but he was also Severus friend, his only friend. He didn't know how to ask what he wanted to know.

Hermione continued despite his lack of outward response, "Lucius Malfoy has been sent back to the prison, though his list of crimes was seen as rather…  _ long _ , he does appear to still have friends in the right places; his sentence was mitigated to three years," Hermione explained dispassionately.

Severus' hand stilled, three years in a place like Azkaban was nothing to be sniffed at, but he knew the wizard had been lucky, he also knew how utterly undeserving he was of that clemency.

"Narcissa, Draco?" he asked quietly, not removing his eyes from the chipped earthenware, cradled in his hands.

"Harry spoke for Narcissa," Hermione admitted, and Severus raised his eyebrows in surprise, to which she offered him the ghost of a smile. "She lied to Voldemort for him, well, for Draco really, but Harry felt she deserved a less severe punishment, his name still carries quite a lot of weight since the war.” It was left unsaid that hers didn't. "Narcissa will be under house arrest for a year, and monitored for five, but she never had to go to prison, and won't ever have to now." Hermione sucked in a breath before continuing, "Draco too, house arrest for a year, followed by monitoring."

Severus felt his body sag in relief, "How?"

"Harry again, and myself, and Ron, all spoke up for him. I hate him,” she said decidedly, not waiting for Severus inevitably prodding, “But, while he may have chosen to do some pretty sadistic things to me over the years, he wasn't evil. That prison would break him, and he was just a child, like the rest of us, he just wasn't born on the winning side. He wants to speak to you… he asked after his trial, wanted me to get a message to you."

Severus nodded, he wanted to see his godson too, though he would be asking what exactly he had done to the passive girl in front of him, that would make her label him sadistic, even after all she had been through.

"Not that I am not grateful to you playing owl Hermione, but why are you here?"

She levelled a steady glare at him, "To pull you out of your self imposed exile, and," she bit her lip while she hesitated, "and to ask for a favour."

* * *

As it turned out Severus couldn't say no to her, whether it was the sense that he  _ owed _ her or just the desperation in her captivating brown eyes, he would never know. But, at Hermione’s request, he came with her to every trial that followed, sitting next to her behind the defence bench, as Hermione’s whole world fell apart.

Rodolphus Lestrange was tried next. As with any salacious secret, news of the connection between himself and Hermione was now widespread in the Wizarding world, and she was already the subject of a few damning newspaper articles. The public had lapped up the reports that one of the ‘sainted’ members of the ‘Golden Trio’, had a secret Death Eater father. How easy it seemed for them to turn on her as if she was the left hand of the devil himself. Though Severus supposed, if you could vilify a girl at fourteen for her supposed dating preferences, in a national publication, all other bets were off.

Just like at his trial Hermione sat stoically, her back ramrod straight, her jaw set firmly, as she gazed resolutely forward. The murmurs of the crowd were louder this time, and Severus detected her flinch every now and again, when a spiteful comment would reach them from the assembled masses above, but otherwise she hid it. He imagined part of it was defiance against the world in general, the people she had bled for that now cast her aside so cruelly for nothing more than an accident of birth. Hermione had already confessed she felt there was no point getting angry; it would only get worse later when they found out her connection to Antonin, a point Severus had to concede. In spite of all those reasons, he knew she mostly showed her bravery for the man in front of her. Hermione was a person entirely governed by her own perception of right and wrong, and while her internal barometer may not have matched up to a strict moral or judicial guideline, she applied it unwaveringly.

When Rodolphus entered the courtroom, it was clear that the older man’s time in the prison had more of an effect that it had on Severus. His face was hollow, and his hair lank, weight had seemingly fallen off his stocky frame. Hermione rose steadily, making her way to the front, to exchange a few short words and Rodolphus appeared half delighted, half made wretched by fatherly concern to see her there. During their whispered conversation, Severus observed as Hermione laid a hand hesitantly over her father’s, Rodolphus' face took on a look of awe at the simple touch, his eyes did not leave her fingers as long as they stayed there. Even later, during the proceedings, Dolph's eyes slid back to the place where Hermione had touched him.  _ How long had it been since someone had touched the man with affection? Had he ever received such a simple comfort? _

The trial was long, even longer than his own had been, it took three days alone for all of the evidence to be read, all of his crimes from the first war, and the second listed before Hermione gave her evidence, and submitted her memories to the court.

The deliberation from the assembled witches and wizards in red robes was swift, Rodolphus Lestrange was sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban prison. The man in shackles kept his eyes locked with his daughter from the moment sentencing was announced, to when he was finally dragged from the courtroom. Hermione never broke the gaze, Severus saw her jaw wobble, and her lip trembled, but she kept Rodolphus in her line of sight.

When Severus was able to reflect, much later, he could say with some rationality that the sentence could have been much worse. The crimes of the inner circle had been bad, very bad, and many of their victims had important relatives that needed to be appeased. Minister Shacklebolt was clearly very keen to show that justice was being done. Fifteen years in the lifespan of a wizard was manageable, Dolph would be sixty by the time he got out, and would still not be halfway through his life, but what of his mind, how would that fair?

* * *

Severus didn't see Hermione again until Rabastan’s trail. Both the younger Lestrange brother and Hermione had  _ insisted  _ that Luna did not sit at the defence bench, and so the blonde took up a place undetected in the crowd. So far Luna's association had been kept out of the papers, and they were keen to keep it that way. The proceedings moved at much the same as they had for his brother, and so it was no great surprise when the same sentence was swiftly delivered.

Severus went back to Antonin's townhouse with both of the young witches that evening, somewhat comforted to find Hermione was greeted by overbearing house elves, that chastised her skinny appearance, and ushered her and ‘her guests’ into the dining room.

After the three of them had picked at a dinner that had been pushed in front of them, Hermione passed a letter to Luna, a thick parchment packet, that looked to contain a book's worth of paper. The blonde ran her fingers over the elegant script rendering her name tenderly. Severus and Hermione dutifully ignored the tears that fell to stain the parchment in her grip, though the curly-haired witch did grasp at Luna’s hand, almost painfully tightly on top of the table, until the food was taken away. After dinner the Ravenclaw left swiftly to head to bed, disappearing upstairs.

"She has a room?" Severus inquired.

Hermione nodded, "She stays here once a week, she says it's for her, but I'm pretty sure it's to check up on me," she said with a mirthless giggle, that did nothing to convince Severus of her contentment. Hermione was too quiet, too still, she had no questions, she wasn't asking  _ why, _ wasn't complaining about things not being fair.

"Are you getting out much?" he pressed, noticing her pale cheeks.

"I've been out all-"

"Aside from the trials?" he interrupted.

"No, not much,” she conceded, “it's been difficult," she hung her head.

"Your friends?" Severus asked politely, that he didn't care for the associations she had was well known, but that wasn't important now.

Hermione raised her face and offered him a watery smile, "They are being as supportive as they can be, it is difficult for them, Antonin… on his list of crimes are Ron's uncles. I cannot expect the Weasley's to forgive him for something like that, and for Neville… it's hard for them. Harry is doing as much as he can, though he doesn't want to come here, and I can’t go to the Burrow at the moment, but we have been exchanging owls,” she explained slightly defensively.

Severus’ eyes moved up the slender column of her throat, and into her eyes, they looked older now, some of their sparkling brilliance overshadowed by her detachment. The bags under them looked like an abomination on her young face, the dark circles having a faintly blue tinge, it should have looked terrible, but he couldn't help associating the colour with muted pansies.  _ Get a grip of yourself Severus! _

"And yet you sit out in the middle of the courtroom, in front of all those faces judging you. There is no need to be such a Gryffindor about it, Hermione, you could, remain on the sidelines and not face as much… discomfort."

"I am aware," Hermione sighed, "but I made a promise to myself, and to all of them really, I won’t pretend that they don’t exist because it's _ easier _ ."

Severus rubbed his hand over his face, "It's going to get so much worse," he admitted redundantly.

"I know," she responded, looking into his eyes, the wave of guilt that washed over him was almost absolute in volume.

* * *

Yaxley's trial was next, and the Northern wizard walked into the courtroom with a casual air, as if he had been summoned to dinner, not to meet his eternal fate. As usual, Hermione moved over to the manacled chair before the evidence began, and while engaged in their brief discussion, Yaxley’s rough voice was loud enough for Severus to hear while he sat in his usual place.

"You're looking well Yaxley," Hermione teased. It did Severus good to hear some levity in her tone, he realised with a small start how much he had missed it.

Yaxley's face split into a broad grin, almost wiping the damage of Azkaban from his features. "Don't tell me you've finally developed a sense of humour Granger," he taunted, "and waiting till I'm banged up as well, that's just cruel."

They prattled on for a few moments until the noise around them indicated the start of proceedings, and Hermione moved to take a step back, but before she did Yaxley called her to stop. He spoke in a softer tone than before, a tone Severus wasn't sure he had ever heard the gruff wizard use. "Little duck, you are going to need to fatten yourself up, and get some sleep before it's  _ his _ turn. If Antonin sees you like this, it will make being sent back worse."

Hermione nodded, a little chastised, and smiled a brittle smile at him before resuming her seat.

That the Wizengamot were  _ determined _ to see Yaxley punished  _ severely _ was not in question after only the opening statements, the man had ripped the Ministry apart and set it back up to suit his own aims while in charge of the DMLE. Once again proving that no matter who was in charge, the humiliation of those in power, and appropriation of funds mattered more, so much more, than any number of lives. The defence fought back with their evidence, detailing how much he had done for the war effort, but it was clear it wasn't going to be enough. Reuben could have taken down Voldemort himself, and it would not have mattered, the writing was on the wall.

Still, despite them both knowing full well which way the wind was blowing, when the twenty-five-year sentence was handed down Hermione gasped from her position next to him. When Severus turned to face her and regarded her angry expression he instantly, wordlessly, silenced and immobilised her with a subtle wave of his hand. Hermione could only move her eyes, and she moved those to blaze at him, Severus was steadfast, she would do herself no favours by shouting out her disgust in this room.

Severus waited with her until the courtroom cleared, and only when the last footfall in the corridor had completely vanished did he release the spells he had placed on her. He let her scream, let her hit and kick against him, her soft blows doing almost nothing to hurt him.When she sagged against his form, Severus wrapped his arms around her awkwardly, as she panted hard from her exertions. They stayed there for a time, until she suddenly straightened up and thanked him, rather formally, before running out of the courtroom.

Severus wished she had hit him harder.

* * *

By the time Antonin got his trial the final battle had been three months previous, the crowds in the courtroom had waned slightly, though the _ entire _ Weasley clan was there to see this one.

Hermione, true to her promise to the man's best friend, had attempted to look after herself in the period between court dates, but she had not been wholly successful. She was still too thin, her eyes to troubled.

When Antonin Dolohov, formidable Death Eater, was lead into the room his eyes sought her out immediately, once the Russian wizard he had been strapped into the wretched contraption, Severus watched as the witch next to him rose up on shaky legs, and made slow progress to the prisoner. Hermione stopped in front of Dolohov, regarding him and for a while, neither of them spoke until Hermione all but fell onto Antonin, her small arms clutching around his neck, and his arms straining against his restraints, cursing when they prevented him from being able to return her embrace. Antonin whispered something to her, but Severus could only make out the soothing tone, Hermione nodded against the crook of the wizard's neck, and the courtroom loudly gasped as he buried his face in her abundant curls. Though many by now had heard the story of how Hermione had run to Dolohov’s side at the end of the battle, not many had seen it. With the amount of cameras flashing as she clung to the Russian, it would be discussed in every home in wizarding Britain by morning.

The case went as those before had done, Harry spoke in Antonin's defence, both of his assistance in the Horcrux hunt, and for his rescue at Malfoy Manor. As Harry had been present for those events his memories were submissible, he didn't seem particularly happy to do so, but when the-boy-who-prevailed had got off the stand, he moved towards the desk and gripped Hermione's hand for a moment, while she whispered ragged thanks. He nodded once at Severus and left the courtroom floor, reappearing a minute or two later next to the Weasley clan.

Throughout the deliberation Hermione's fingers twitched on the bench in front of them, and her leg bounced, her constant fidgeting continued until the fifteen-year sentence was delivered, and then she was motionless.

When the Aurors moved to take Dolohov, Hermione abruptly stood up from behind the desk, Kingsley looked as if he would rebuke her but she didn't direct her gaze at him. "I'll wait," she said clearly to the wizard in shackles, as his stare bored into her. Antonin made no response as he was dragged away, but Hermione didn't regain her seat until he was gone.

The crush afterwards in the corridors outside the courtrooms was dreadful, journalists simpering for Hermione’s story, wanting to twist her life into some tragic tale of star-crossed lovers, it made Severus sick. Just when he thought he had steered her numb self through the worse of the gauntlet, they came across a cluster of redheads waiting ahead of the apparition point.

Severus tried to stop the inevitable, he tugged on Hermione’s arm and willed her to move, but she wouldn’t. Instead, she took a step away from him as Molly Weasley flew at her, her face red and her eyes blotchy. 

"How could you Hermione? How could you?" She scolded, her voice dripping in raged fuelled disappointment. "I took you into my home, into my  _ family _ , I thought you would marry my son one day, and all this time you've been with some Death Eater..."

"Mrs Weasley, I-"

"He  _ killed _ my brothers you stupid girl, have you got anything to say that would excuse that?" Hermione's gaze dropped to the floor "Well, have you?" Molly demanded.

"No, Mrs Weasley," she whispered.

"I didn't think so; now you listen to me my girl," she began venomously, as she pointed a finger at Hermione's chest, "You will stay  _ away _ from my family, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs Weasley… and I'm sorry," Hermione finished quietly.

Molly said nothing as she stormed off, gathering her family together before heading the floo. When Severus got Hermione back to the townhouse she tried to push him away when he went to hug her, but Severus was done with her asceticism, he stepped forward to grip her tighter. “Don’t be such a fucking martyr Hermione.”

“Really?” she said in disbelief coloured with temper, “ _ You _ are going to say that, to me?”

“If the shoe fits,” he drawled.

Hermione stopped fighting the embrace, though she coloured the air blue for several minutes, telling him exactly where he could stick his condescension, Severus smiled for the first time in years.

* * *

Severus didn't see anyone, Order associated or otherwise, for a month. He filled his time between drinking hours, selling his hideous excuse for a family home and purchasing a small flat. He got work at St Mungo's, helping with their potions contracts. Whatever moral issues they may have had were overlooked because of his experience. He was happy to take a job that meant he could work behind the scenes, the money was better than he ever saw as a teacher, and he was much better suited to it. Life was beginning to settle for him, until he came home one day and found the tiny form of Luna Lovegood, settled quite happily, propped up against his front door.

"Hello professor," she greeted him dreamily, with a wave.

Severus heaved a sigh while praying to Merlin for the strength to get through the conversation that would follow. "I am no longer your professor Miss Lovegood, nor have I been for some time, what are you doing here?"

She turned to look at him, and he nearly flinched under her crystal blue penetrating gaze. "I'm here for Hermione, you don't want to hear this, but she needs you." Luna stood with a swift motion, and gripped his wrist firmly, "Come on," she called, before apparating them.

The unexpected side-along made him nauseous, and as they appeared in Antonin's townhouse Severus bent over to try and stop his stomach from churning, shaking Luna's dainty hand off his arm roughly. "Miss Lovegood, never do that to me again," he snapped.

She simply walked away, as if she hadn't heard him,  _ bloody meddling nutcase _ .

"Come on," Luna called over her shoulder, and he cursed himself as he reluctantly followed.

"Why am I here?" he drawled.

"Hermione she-"

"Do spit it out Miss Lovegood," he said, eyes drifting to the ceiling in exasperation.

"We took her to go and see if we could return her parent's memories," Luna explained.

That caught his interest, "We?" Severus questioned.

"Myself and my father."

_ Bloody hell _ , he could only imagine that trip, "And?"

"It didn't work," Luna answered shortly, her voice rougher than he had ever heard it. It occurred to Severus that he might have to add another name to the small list of people he had underestimated in his lifetime. He nodded, he had performed the charm himself, and he knew how temperamental any work on memory was, especially considering this had been carried out on Muggles. He had explained to Hermione at the time that the action they took was the only one they had, it was the only thing that would have possibly worked. They were alive because of her, but she had sacrificed another part of herself to ensure that safety. 

Severus felt another brick added to his wall of guilt as it occurred to him that Hermione hadn't even asked him to go with them. She would have wanted to, as the caster he might have been useful, maybe she considered that as he had executed the favour she had asked of him, he wouldn't do anything else. Severus couldn’t blame her for that assumption that was what his behaviour must have looked like. Hermione wouldn't have known that he had been trying to put himself together before she saw her again.

"She hasn't left the study, Antonin's study, since we got back… it's been two weeks," Luna said despondently.

Severus followed Luna in silence, and watched as she knocked on the door announcing their arrival with no response, the pair silently walked into the room. "Hermione Professor Snape's here," Luna lightly announced, as if nothing was wrong. Severus stood in the doorframe as the little blonde walked up to run her hand over Hermione's hair, as the brunette sat impassively in a high-backed chair. "I'm going to leave you for a moment and speak to the elves about dinner," and with that she turned and exited, leaving Severus and Hermione alone. 

Severus twitched his fingers uncomfortably, this was not something he was well versed in, Hermione looked dreadful, she couldn't have slept in a week and she was as skinny as she had been during their trials. After a long pause of indecision, he crouched in front of her.

"Hermione?" he asked gently, so as not to startle her. Despite their entry, and Luna's conversation, she didn’t show any sign of being aware he was even there. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes like that of a wounded animal, it made bile rise in his throat.

"Hello Severus, thank you for coming to see me."

Her stilted politeness made him feel ashamed of himself for not seeking her out before, not offering his support. Instead, he had retreated to lick his own wounds. In honesty, he wasn't sure why he had stayed away, a combination of pain, guilt and not knowing how to be around her, how to help.

"You're welcome Hermione," he said eventually.

They sat in silence for the longest time, until fat tears began to roll down her cheeks, when her body began to shake with suppressed sobs Severus leant forward from his position on his knees, and inelegantly placed his arms around her shoulders. The contact opened the dam, and Hermione wept for the best part of an hour. They never spoke a word; he just held her as she let go of the grief she had evidently been carrying for far too long. After a while, Severus sensed her whimpering had stopped, when he looked down to the face beneath the mass of brown curls he found she had fallen asleep, her tear soaked lashes clinging to her too pale face. Severus sighed as he let his head rest on top hers for a second, closing his eyes.

When he had gotten ahold of himself, he pulled Hermione up into his arms, and gently placed her onto the small sofa in the corner of the room, pulling a blanket he found over her. His hand slightly shook as he reached forward to brush some hair out of her face, softly tucking a piece behind her ear, before moving out of the room, taking care to close the door noiselessly. 

When he heard the delicate click of the latch, he turned to find Luna regarding him from the other side of the corridor. Severus was in no mood for her all seeing stare, "I'll be back tomorrow," he said curtly, before disappearing down the corridor followed by his customary billow of robes.

* * *

Severus came back the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.

A routine became established, and the three outsiders, as Severus privately called them, formed something of an unlikely bond. Luna came over once a week and stayed, and they even spent time at the Lovegood home, where Severus regularly thought he would blow his brains out, but it was worth it to see Hermione smile. He even managed a few quirks of his lips, especially when Hermione tried  _ expressly hard _ to have a conversation with Xeno about some creature or other.

But that was only the first step, Hermione was struggling. Everything she hadn't dealt with during the war; her torture, the battles, the truth about her parentage, killing Greyback, the deaths, then the trials, the papers and Antonin, all of it was too much for her to process, too much for anyone to process at one time. She was the brightest witch of her age, she should have been out taking the Wizarding world by storm. Instead, she rarely went out, it was a fight to get her to eat regularly, and she was prone to crippling anxiety.

Weasley and Potter came around periodically, when they had time away from their Auror duties. Severus supposed he should give them some credit for that, with the Weasley matriarch still  _ very much _ refusing to acknowledge Hermione's existence, he knew such things were difficult, but he struggled with their apparent inability to talk to her about the issues in her life. Neither of them ever mentioned Rodolphus or Antonin at all. The first time Weasley brought up a hunt they were on for a _ Dark wizard, _ and how they would get what was coming to them Severus had to sit on his hands to stop himself from giving the ginger idiot exactly what was coming to  _ him _ .

Apart from himself and Luna, all of those people who had been the most support to her had been packed off to Azkaban, and Hermione was expected to be a good little girl and swallow it.

Harry tried a little harder than his friend, came over more often and sat with Hermione more patiently, but he didn't understand her grief. The boy wanted his friend back, but that girl had changed. Even if Hermione had decided to renounce all of them, and acted as Yaxley had expected her to, she wouldn't have just been able to get a job and live her life as if none of it had ever happened.

Following Antonin's trial, as predicted, Hermione’s depiction in the press had become even more twisted. They reinvented her as a seductress of power, a broken witch who was drawn to violence and danger. There were calls for her to be stripped of her Order of Merlin, whispers that she may have been assisting the Dark Lord during the war. They made accusations, and called her names, they danced around the subject rather artfully, what they weren't saying was  _ Death Eater whore _ , but it was all there, in the subtext. The actual words were reserved for when they were out on the streets; people would shove her, or knock things out of her grasp ‘accidentally’, they would cough words under their breath, or scowl at her when she was paying for something. Hermione never reacted, she kept a wan smile on her face at all times. Severus would use his perfected Potions Master persona, and sneer and hiss at whoever dared treat her in such ways, but Hermione just carried on as if it hadn't happened, until one day he reached his boiling point.

Severus could deal with her grief, guilt and overwhelming pain, but her despondency nagged at him. She wasn't a person built for it. They shouted at each other for an hour, he was unaccustomed to treating people as gently as he had her in the last months, and his entire being rebelled against it. She wasn't getting any better for his soft approach. The argument came to a peak, and he accused her of  _ allowing _ the treatment of the world at large to punish herself, and Hermione had laughed, actually laughed. He watched on in shock as she raised a hand and said ‘It takes one to no one, Severus’. He had stormed out then, unable to face her for a while.

Severus had always been an outsider, that die had been cast from almost the moment he was born, in the way that sometimes just happened with children. Severus was used to the censure of those around him, and he could admit, at least to himself, that there was more than a mere vein of truth to Hermione's words.

He came back to the house a week later, not so much tail between his legs, as eager to pretend it had never happened, what he found however made it clear their argument had had some effect on her as well. Hermione had seemingly been up all night, searching through magical law texts in the Dolohov library, seeking precedents or some such, anything that would help.

"I just want… I  _ need _ to see him, Severus," she said, eyes wide and pleading.

He nodded, and took a seat next to her, picking up the next book from the pile, Hermione turned and beamed at him gripping his hand tightly. "Thank you, Severus, for your support, for your friendship, for everything."

"Must we do this," he taunted, and pointedly opened his book, though his blustering had no effect on her broad smile.

Hermione's smiles were so odd to him, he reflected later, such freely given emotion, not just from words but her oh so expressive look. He regularly criticised her for her inability to keep a single emotion off her face but secretly, to a man like him, it was her best possible attribute. Severus was from a poor family, in more ways than just the lack of money in their pockets, his parents had been emotionally retentive, there had been no ‘I love you's’ or shared laughter in his house. It was probably why he had held on so long to Lily, to her memory. Severus was well aware how fabricated that memory was, Lily was no more perfect than any witch, and she certainly hadn't been the right one for him. They would have been terrible for each other in the long term, but she had been his friend, his first friend, until now his only friend. Lily had been a formidable witch, but her world was built on absolutes, she had no comprehension of grey.

Severus looked at Hermione's little form, tuckered out on the sofa after pouring over legal text after legal text, throughout the day. Sometime after the trials, when it looked as if she had hit rock bottom, and needed support more than ever, he had considered presenting her with an alternative. Severus would dream about it often, visiting her, asking her ‘Hermione live with me, be protected by me, be _ loved _ by me’.

His feelings for the tiny witch had been shifting since he had regarded her in the early morning light, while dropping her at the Burrow. The night he had assisted her with her parent's escape had been fraught with emotion, but she had been so unbelievably brave. Severus had turned back to face her; and she had been standing there in the long grass, with the rising sun illumination the soft golds in her hair, her passionate face still etched with distress. Then, despite the obvious weight on her heart she had smiled wearily and thanked him.  _ Thanked. Him.  _ It was so honest, so pure, so baffling, that the moment had immediately become one of his most treasured memories, though over time the remembrance became laced with hurt as he knew,  _ he just knew _ , he was lost again.

Severus had thought her young and silly, her crush on a boy like Weasley an indication of her immaturity, she had caught him out again that day, as he regarded her outside the hospital wing, as she stood aside to allow her friend happiness. How she had known they weren't right for each other. Maybe there had been hope for him then, but Severus had never allowed the thought to blossom, and definitely had not allowed it to take root, but it was there all the same.

But then he had seen her with Antonin and that was no childish crush, that was something more, much, much more. Unbelievably those feelings that she displayed on her face were real, returned from a man that Severus hadn't seen so much as blink in the face of a pretty witch before.

Severus sighed as he gathered Hermione up in his arms and took her to her room, to Antonin's room.

It wasn't to be.

He had attempted to bury his disappointment. Painful as it was, he wouldn't abandon her, he could not. In time he hoped his feelings would temper to allow him to enjoy the fullness of his first real, equal, friendship, without the tinge of hurt or sadness.

He was still adjusting to a masterless existence; it was a new experience for him. The first had been his father, at ten it had become Lily, then the Dark Lord and finally Dumbledore, each more disappointing than the last, until her.

Severus had resented her at first, he didn't want to be ruled again, he belatedly realised that he wasn't, it was this that gave him hope for a content future. Hermione didn't command things of him, she was appreciative of him, for the person he was, not who he pretended to be, not who he could be if she changed a laundry list of things about him. She never belittled him; she valued him. It made him think that maybe he should start valuing himself.


	26. Chapter 26

I've been living so long with my pictures of you  
That I almost believe that the pictures  
Are all I can feel

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Four walls and still no window.

Antonin was sat on the edge of the cot, his bare feet making imprints on the dusty floor as he remained otherwise still as a statue. He hadn't let himself regress into lying back on the bed for the larger part of every day, not yet, he tried   
to save sleep for when he assumed it was night. The rough calculation of the passing day, being the only mental stimulus he had. Antonin had been there a year now. Three hundred and sixty-five days had dawned since he had entered the prison, since his ridiculous sentencing, he wasn't counting the months he had spent locked away  _ before _ his trial, he doubted any of the Ministry bods would be stripping that time away from his overall term. It was best to expect nothing; then he couldn't be disappointed.

There had been some improvements made to Azkaban since the war, and meagre as they were he overheard the guards grumbling about the alterations continuing throughout the prison, but Antonin never saw much. There was still no daylight, the bedding was of a better quality, but damp still coursed through the walls. He was still left to shiver at night, though whether that was down to the temperature or his memories wasn't clear. The only change that affected him was the bars at the entrance of the cell, in place of the solid metal door that had been there before. Being able to look out into the lighter space of the corridor, meant he could track the guard routines, which he could use to mark the passing of time. Antonin found that it kept some of the demons at bay, for a while at least. 

The dementors weren't there now, and Antonin was certain the Ministry would have  _ paraded  _ that act of ‘incredible charity’ for months on end, but it made little difference to him. Wizards that had spent over fifteen years at their mercy, didn't need the foul creatures to be there to be affected; the same environment was enough, the memory was enough, the cold was enough.

The bitterness ate into him more severely than he had ever felt before, everything felt rawer now. This time, those bars, the bricks, the sea, they were all preventing him from getting to something,  _ getting to her _ .

Hermione, Hermione, Hermione.

Antonin said her name over and over again in his mind, spoke it from his chapped lips during the day and in his sleep. ‘I'll wait’ she had said, standing before the great and the good of their world, and she had meant it. She had squared her little shoulders, and held her chin high as if she was daring them to judge her. Antonin only had eyes for her in the courtroom, but he noticed the others too, the sneering faces from the benches above, how they seemed to be directed at her more often than him, like she was the one on trial. The girl who had committed the crime of being born to a father that had done unspeakable acts, of loving a wizard that had done the same. 

Antonin heard whispers, innuendo from those meandering about the prison, guards the or dignitaries that they were showing around to  _ lord _ their improvement programme. Overheard them talk about the fall of the ‘Great Hermione Granger’, it made him want to tear out their tongues, they weren't fit to speak of her. But more often, that surge of violence was directed at himself.

Antonin had  _ marked _ her with his taint while they were together, as sure as if the welded ink from his brand had transferred into her innocent flesh. His greatest fear before the final battle, had been Hermione celebrating the victory with the side of the light, and then endeavouring to erase his existence from her life after his re-imprisonment.

This was so much worse.

Fifteen years they had said. I'll wait she had said.

Part of him had quietly muttered that if he were a  _ better  _ man he would have shook his head as she made her declaration, a  _ better  _ man would have desperately called at her to move on, to live her life with someone worthy of her.

Antonin had never claimed to be a good man.

He was no more capable of telling Hermione to give up on him, than he was of walking straight out of the solid cell walls. The only reason for seeing this through at all was her promise; she had said she would wait.

But fifteen years.

_ I've already done that, _ Antonin had thought when the sentence was given. By the time he got out this time he would have spent more time, inside the walls of Azkaban than he had out of it. He debated with himself daily as to whether  _ knowing  _ the term he would serve this time made it better. When he had been thrown in here after the first Wizarding war, there was never any suggestion that he would  _ ever _ get out, Antonin could only imagine the intention had been that he would remain there until the end of his days.  _ Now, though? _ Antonin knew he could live these years, he had done it before, it would eat at him physically and magically, not to mention mentally, but he would survive it, but he worried about how much of him would be left.  _ Would there be enough that Hermione still recognised him, still loved him? _

He had no mental stimulation, nothing to do with his hands, nothing to pass the waking hours except his thoughts and regrets, and a world of night plagued by twisted visions; Hermione at the manor, Hermione at the Battle, Hermione in the courtroom. All the worst memories he had. Some days if he struggled for long enough Antonin could remember her smiles for a moment, a brief reprieve before the comforting image would slip through his grasp like water.

Antonin had somehow managed to avoid his pictures of her being detected; they were almost completely faded now, he had touched them so often. Her delicate writing had been the first thing to go; he couldn't quite remember what it had said, though knowing it had been there still gave him comfort. There were so few certainties in his existence, everything over time began to twist, but Antonin never let himself doubt that the words had been there. Etched into the back by her delicate script. Soon they would just be worn scraps of parchment; he tried not to dwell on that thought, the sense of foreboding, the mirroring to the fading of his sense of self was almost too much to bare.

On bad days Antonin would see other things. Images would come without warning, would hover in the corner of his mind, resisting his persistence in attempting to banish them. He would see Hermione writhing beneath a faceless wizard, moaning in a series of breathy gasps that should have only ever been for him, the litany of forbidden sound falling from her, while her face screwed up and flushed in ecstasy. Antonin would see a grim glance into the 'future'; him, finally being allowed out of the cursed gates to find Hermione was not there, that she didn't want him anymore.

"You said you would wait," he would shout at her, desperation turning into rage at the sight of her impassive expression.

"I lied," she would spit back at him, her eyes cold and unfeeling, and he would reach for her, not kindly. His thoughts would tangle when his fists would smash against the bare walls; Antonin would pant, drenched in sweat, till he calmed down, then he would scream himself hoarse and refuse food, punishing himself for his thoughts. The behaviour wouldn't last long, once he had chased away his terror he would realise his stupidity, he wouldn't survive his sentence if he didn't look after himself, so he would resume eating his food, and try to sleep and remember her smiles.

Then the cycle would begin again.

* * *

Another week went by, another month, and then Antonin was collected from the front of the box as usual. As part of the Ministry's plans to improve Azkaban, he was subjected to the indignity of a monthly assessment of health, both

mental and physical. Antonin was usually as uncooperative as possible, he had so little control over anything, but he could exert some here, and so he wouldn't play along nicely.

Antonin was led into a little room and instructed to sit at the table, he sat impassively, staring at the wall opposite rather than looking around, he was not totally convinced he was unobserved during these moments, thereby missing that this was not his typical examination room. The door opened, and Antonin heard the shuffling of small feet, he tried to place who the healer was, he may have been facing away from the door, but his senses in this regard were advanced, however, dulled they might have been at present. There were three healers on a rotation that he had seen during his time, each more bothersome than the last. Antonin remained staring ahead, as the small figure of the unknown healer sat at the table in front of him.

"Hello, Antonin."

Everything stopped; time, the movement of the planet, the free flow of blood around his body, the compression and inflation of his lungs.  _ What fresh hell was this? _

Antonin immediately dropped his gaze from the wall to the surface of the table and gritted his teeth. "Is this what the Ministry have sanctioned to test my sanity now? I assure you, I am not  _ mad _ , no matter how many tricks you employ to try to convince me otherwise," he sneered.

He was impressed that his voice didn't shake, he was using all of his energy reserves to keep himself still,  _ how had they modified the healer's voice? _ Before coming into this Merlin forsaken room Antonin would have believed  _ nothing _ would have given him more pleasure than hearing  _ her _ voice again, but now he was here it felt like he was being mocked.  _ Did they not know who he was, what he was capable of. _

A tiny hand moved into view, a hand made up of delicate fingers, and sun-kissed skin, a hand that had chipped nail polish and the fading scar of another's words branded unfairly onto its skin. The hand,  _ her hand _ , appeared in the small portion of the desk, that was his line of sight. Hesitantly it turned and laid gently over his own.

Rigidly as Antonin continued to hold himself, he couldn’t hold back a pained gasp; it felt like all of his senses were being attacked at once. He could  _ smell _ her, honestly, he thought he could almost taste her in the air around him, the perception of her presence was so overwhelming.

Antonin’s mind was at war, one side  _ screaming _ at him to look up, to look at this person and confirm the wildest dreams of his heart. The other protesting, just as vehemently, that he keep his eyes where they were, while he kept them down there was still hope. He clenched his fists; there was no telling what he would do if he looked up and it wasn't her.

Antonin didn't say anything. The silence in the room was deafening, until he heard the sound of a chair being scraped back, gentle steps seemed to get closer until a tiny body unceremoniously fell into his lap, delicate arms winding around his neck.

* * *

Hermione's limbs trembled as she wrapped herself around Antonin's hesitant form, he still hadn't acknowledged her presence, though she could feel his reaction. A whole new wave of wave of pain hit her when she saw how tightly he held himself, how little he could trust himself to believe. She moved her hands to wrap around his neck, her movements slow and deliberate, his head dropped to rest on her shoulder. She had to start talking; she didn't have much time, and a lot to get through.  _ Maybe if he kept hearing her voice, he would start to believe? _

It had taken a year, most of her sanity, all of her intelligence, every bargaining chip she had ever earned, a series of outright threats, and then some costly bribes to get here. Hermione would do it all again. Time had moved on; the papers had moved on. It was less sensitive now. Sure it would be no cakewalk, but it  _ would _ happen.

She hadn't been able to sleep for a week, not that lack of regular sleep was a new issue in her life. Hermione had been equal parts excited and terrified to see Antonin, not having laid eyes on him since his trial. Hermione had walked into the room slowly, her unsteady legs causing her feet to shuffle, when she had sat down in front of him and saw the blank expression on his face it had dug fresh cuts into her heart. He looked the same, a little rumpled around the edges  _ but the same _ , apart from his eyes, they looked cold and worn. That he was suffering wasn't in doubt.

Hermione pushed her tears back and forced some air past the lump in her throat.

"They are letting Rodolphus and Rabastan out; we have arranged their releases for next month. The Ministry aren't happy, and there is a list of parole terms longer than you could imagine, but I  _ promised _ you I would try, and we are still fighting." She shuffled on his lap, holding him tighter. "It came down blood in the end," she huffed out a hollow laugh that she didn't feel, "like it always seems to, crimes or not they're both still scared twenty-eight, and the last of their line,  _ legitimately _ . It would appear there are a lot of people in society that weren't that happy to let another family die out like the Blacks."

Hermione roughly inhaled as Antonin moved his arms slowly to circle her waist, she could feel the shoulder of her blouse getting wet as he pushed his forehead against her more firmly, and she held him tighter still. 

"I'm so sorry I haven't seen you sooner Antonin," she said softly into his ear, letting her arms rub up and down his spine. "It has taken  _ a lot  _ of petitioning to be able to get this one visit. I wasn't sure they would grant it at all, but you know me, I wasn't going to let it lie.”

Hermione closed her eyes as she let her fingers card through his hair. “I had to cause a little bit more disruption for you I'm afraid, they simply didn't want to listen. Those people forget that there is a whole other world out there, other countries that weren't touched by the war, and the Russian Wizarding community wasn't that happy with the imprisonment of one of their citizens for as long as you have been in here."

"Hermione?" Antonin rasped finally, and at the sound of his voice, a sound that she had missed every day of his absence, Hermione gave into the tears that had been threatening all day.

Her voice wavered as she continued, "I've got Draco's influence, I think it's his apology for everything, I don't care of course, as long as I have it, what he has left anyway."

* * *

"...I think it might be another year but then I can get you out of here, I can…"

"...And Kingsley is going to start improving the conditions…"

"...the house is fine, the elves barely let me do anything on my own…"

"...I have  _ missed _ you so very much…"

"...I  _ love _ you…"

"...I'm  _ waiting _ ... I'll wait… as long as it takes…"

Antonin looked up then, no one on earth would have been able to ramble on as she had, he could hear her voice, faltering as it was, feel her body, smell her skin. When he looked up and cautiously opened his eyes, he was rewarded by familiar curls and a pained expression that unfortunately was familiar to him too. Hermione was trying to keep talking, but he could see the fat tears trailing down her face.

"You came back for me?" he whispered. She nodded and began laying small kisses all over his face. 

_ Had she always been that small? _ Convinced as he now was that she was there, it didn't help him to take in her appearance, she didn't look real. She looked so clean, so bright, so Hermione. Antonin couldn't quite take in everything she was saying.  _ Was she getting him out?  _ He gripped her wrists, "Hermione what is happening?"

"They’re letting Yaxley out in six months, he would have been out sooner, you and he did more for the war effort after all, but some of the Wizengamot are still a bit gun-shy over his release as he was one of the key people behind the infiltration in the first place.”

Hermione swept his hair from his brow, her hands coming to clamp on each cool cheek. “Then you six months later, if they stick to our negotiations. We have already started working through the terms, you will both have five years of parole, but I have petitioned that you will be able to keep access to your funds, and will be able to leave the country."

Antonin's mind was racing, he couldn't take it all in, a year, and he would be free.

He brushed the pads of his thumbs gently over her face to wipe away the stubborn traces of her tears, but she was smiling under them now, her eyes searching his. They stayed there like that for ages, just holding each other; he felt calm under her tender ministrations. Reluctantly he spoke, "How long do we have?"

Hermione shifted slightly to look at her watch, "Twenty minutes."

Antonin clenched his eyes shut, "Will you be able to come again?"

She buried her head into his shoulder, "I'm not sure, I don't think so, but I   
have arranged to be able to send letters, you won't be able to respond, but I can send them to you."

Antonin felt the sting of a future visit being denied abate slightly, "Letters would help," she raised her head to beam at him "Could you send some more pictures?"

* * *

Hermione exited the doors of Azkaban and mechanically walked until she reached the apparition point, but instead of proceeding, she stopped to look out at the water. The harsh grey waves of the North Sea lapped aggressively against the jagged rocks, repeatedly soaking through her shoes, but Hermione paid the cold no mind. She had faced worse than this. Here, in this Merlin forsaken place she felt closer to them than she had since the trials, in some way she could imagine that they were breathing in the same air. She knew they weren't looking at the same sky. But somewhere on the island, their hearts were beating, and it made hers feel like it had restarted. She didn't want to leave just yet.

The Auror waiting for her made a jostling movement, stepping from one foot to the other while he glared at the water as if it would retreat when faced with his displeasure. Hermione ignored his deliberately audible huffs, she was tired of dealing with the exasperation of the Ministry and its employees. 

It had taken three months for the shock to wear off, the shock of the cumulative weight of all the bricks that had been stacking up over the last three years of her life. The wall that was built fell on her after Antonin's sentence, and it took a long time for her to untangle herself from the rubble. While dusting herself down Hermione realised something, whoever she was now, whatever had happened to her, in essence, she was still the girl that had tried to sell S.P.E.W. badges in her fourth year. Even though she had known people would sneer at her, even though she hadn't been popular enough for the campaign to take much hold. She did it anyway, because it had been the  _ right  _ thing to do, once her heart and mind had been set on something she acted.

Her quest for their freedom was the same. Sure the moral case was very different, but that didn't matter. Hermione wanted them out, she felt they had served their time, and with enough pushing, she would get what she wanted.

When the initial public furore had died down, Hermione had received a letter from Professor McGonagall, or Headmistress McGonagall as she was now. Her favourite professor had extended her an invitation to come back to Hogwarts to take her N.E.W.Ts, Hermione was fairly sure the offer had been sent with pure intentions, but given the general reception see had received of late it had felt like yet another plea for her to move on and forget her cause, to stop kicking up a fuss. 

Hermione had thought about it, for a little while at least. She had considered that she would have to forgo education entirely to get a job, to be able to pay for herself and the legal proceedings, but had not come to pass. Antonin had not mentioned at the battle, not that he would have had time, but he had made provisions for her, ample provisions as it turned out. From the moment she had arrived at the townhouse she had been looked after by the elves and her every need had been seen too.

What free time she had that she did not spend pouring over books, was spent assisting Severus, her old Potions Professor was about to open his own supply store. He had asked if she would consider running it, in his typical nonchalant fashion, popping the idea in front of her one afternoon as if it had just that moment occurred to him. Hermione knew what he was about; he wanted to give her an occupation, something that would keep her busy, so she would not succumb to the negativity around her, plus it would allow him to keep an eye on her. Hermione didn't agree to run it, at least not full time, but while she knew she was being manipulated she did agree to come in a couple of times a week, she found the routine helped organise her thoughts, and she enjoyed his company. Not to mention Severus was  _ very _ bad with people, and it was quickly apparent that many of his customers saved purchases they had to make for days she would be in. Social pariah, she may have been, but she was still preferred if someone had a detailed enquiry.

The public perception of her was beginning to improve, or at least people were beginning to forget about her. Which for Hermione, was better than any ‘redemption’. The papers had hounded her for months after the trails, before they got bored, there was still the odd opinion piece or scathing letter, but aside from that, she was largely left alone. Her dealings with the press had left her paranoid; she had no idea who to trust anymore, her circle had become smaller as a result.

Once she had begun researching how they would get the ball rolling, she had gone to see Kingsley, seeking to arrange visitation with all of them for herself and Luna, she had been surprised when it was denied, Hermione scoffed slightly at the memory. How she had any indignation left at that point was anyone's guess, but they'd done it, tricked her again into believing that the good guys would do the right thing.

Hermione stepped back as a particularly large wave crept up the rocks, and threw her head back to look at the sky, feeling the wind on her face. If had taken such an extraordinarily long time to get there. She wanted to keep her feet planted on the rocks for just a little while longer. As if more time would _ prove _ to her that it was real. 

At the beginning, there had been a lot of talk from patronising ‘learned’ folk that had no idea who they were dealing with. There had been lots of muttering of precedents, and other such nonsense, but ultimately it came down to the fact that the Wizarding world, and the Ministry, in particular, wanted to pretend the war had never happened. That was much easier to do if they left the  _ nasty _ Death Eaters in their cages.

Severus and Luna had helped, they had sought possible grounds for appeal on everything they could think of, the length of the sentencing, the denial of rights to visitation, they put together information on a whole host of areas and got exactly nowhere. Then, unexpectedly, Draco Malfoy had asked to see her. The blond had been uncomfortable when he was invited to Antonin's home to meet with them, he seemed to brighten at the sight of Severus, but the scowl on his godfather’s face clearly made him reassess that feeling of security. Her former professor was on high alert for any slight that would upset her, Luna floated in and out of the conversation, completely baffling Draco for the most part, but despite the less than conducive environment they did manage to agree on somethings. Hermione had been suspicious of his intentions, but Draco had come prepared for that, and seemingly prepared to offer assistance that might have an impact, something he referred to as the exploitation of the ‘pureblood angle’. When Draco first brought it up, Hermione had cocked her head to the side in silent question, and he had smirked. The expression was so familiar it made Hermione blink, she had seen that twist of his lips, that mean glint in his eyes, a thousand times before, only this time it wasn't directed at her.

The next week she had attended 'society dinners' with the Malfoy heir, chewing the ear off of Lord and Lady whats thier face, about the plight of the sacred twenty-eight. Ample time with Slytherins had clearly rubbed off on her, and Hermione played her part well, whispers started at the Wizengamot, Draco reported conversations happening over coffee in the intervals, and then they started pushing in motions, first a parole plan, and then visitation, and so began the rigorous process of amendments.

None of this helped Antonin. While he was a pureblood he was still a foreigner. To most of the witches and wizards in the upper echelons of society, that made him no better than a half-blood, no better than Hermione essentially. While they would tolerate, and even support, her campaigning to assist her _ betters, _ they wouldn't grease the wheel that helped her equals. At first, the stumbling block had given Hermione pause,  _ what would happen if she got them all out bar him? _ She wouldn't have been able to stand it. She had thrown herself into paperwork harder than ever then. If they managed to free Yaxley he would surely be able to help her; there was no way he would rest until his brother was free. And then Luna, in her usual unassuming way, chanced upon the solution. She had come to the Dolohov townhouse for her usual sleepover, to find Hermione had beaten her to it, and was already fast asleep, her head resting on the pages of one of her many open books. Luna had gently shaken her awake.

"Hermione, you have to look after yourself better, Antonin will kill us all when he gets out if you look like this."

"I know, I know I just… I don't know what to do," she replied despondently.

Luna had called for tea and sat herself down next to Hermione, idly rotating her friendship bracelet around her slim wrist. "If the purebloods don't care, you need to find people who do," she mused.

Hermione had sighed. "I know that Luna but who? He has a reputation all over this country; it’s not likely to change over, oh… OH!"

Hermione had immediately fire called Draco, and they had begun working on a plan of attack for _ international _ assistance the very next day. The Malfoy's and the Lestrange's both had contacts in France, and using those Hermione got a meeting with the ambassador for Russia. It had taken time, but eventually, representatives from other European Wizarding communities began applying pressure.

Only a month previous Hermione had been granted an order that both of the Lestrange brothers would be released. She and Luna had celebrated with  _ a lot _ of elf-made wine, much to Severus’ bafflement when he came back to the townhouse to find them both huddled next to each other on the floor, crying their hearts out. Although the terms were onerous, they finally felt like the tide was turning, and then, not more than three days later they were summoned to a meeting which revealed the next block to their goal. 

One of the hundred or so conditions to parole was that each of the released Death Eaters would need to have a parole contact for the next five years. In actuality, that person had to do very little but sign a piece of parchment, but this was where the Ministry were having one last go at trying to screw her. A person could  _ only  _ sign for  _ one _ released prisoner, for the entirety of their parole period. Effectively meaning if Hermione signed for Rodolphus she would not be able to sign for  _ any  _ of the others until the period was over.  _ Who was to say it would end in five years? _ She wouldn't have put it past them to arrange an extension.

Severus was unable to help as the wording expressly forbade anyone who had the Dark Mark to be a signatory. Luna was obviously going to sign for Rabastan, so Hermione had no idea what she would do in the event of being able to get the others out.

After a huge amount of deliberation and a knowledge of the lack of options she had Hermione approached Ron and Harry. Following the immediate aftermath of the trials she had kept her distance from the boys, but now they had managed to set up a standing lunch date, every two weeks they would eat at the same spot. At first, it was mostly awkward, but it was getting better, they wanted her to be happy, that much was clear, but they couldn't support her life choice, as such, they largely pretended it hadn't happened. Hermione had made her request in a series of fits and starts, feeling guilty the entire time for putting them, Ron especially, in that position. Although the refusal had been expected, and delivered softly, the kind delivery didn't make it hurt any less.

Help again came in an unexpected package, a knock at the door one day signalled the arrival of Ginny and Fleur Weasley. The latter apologised for not making her way over sooner, following the war herself and Bill had headed to Cairo, to get away from it all, and for her to complete her apprenticeship with Gringott's, Fleur was now a fully qualified curse breaker. Hermione had always respected the forthrightness of the French girl. 

The blonde had clasped her hand as they caught up over tea. "I understand Hermione, when I first met Molly she did not care for me. But I  _ loved _ Bill, I could not have chosen to love another, painful as it was, he was my choice, he will always be my choice."

"Thank you," Hermione had whispered in response.

Ginny had heard of her plight via Harry, she had been sheepish at first, but Hermione understood, Antonin had attacked her family, that she was willing to listen was more than she could ever have hoped for. When they embraced after fumbled apologies, Ginny whispered that she missed her into her hair.

Over many more cups of tea that eventually became glasses of wine, and a lot of tears, the two girls pledged themselves as signatories; Ginny would sign for Rodolphus and Fleur for Yaxley. When Hermione thought of introducing the part Veela to the Northern wizard Hermione laughed for the first time in months.

The laboured sigh of the disgruntled Auror broke Hermione from her thoughts, and she reluctantly pulled her eyes away from the grey prism, whispering a quiet goodbye that he would never hear, before she marched to the apparition point.

* * *

Opening her eyes Hermione regarded the little house shaped like a Rook as she bounded up the path, she had only made it halfway when the door was roughly opened widely, and Xeno barrelled out of the door. "Hermione!" he called, arms outstretched, and she all but ran into him and accepted his warm hug and warmer greetings, she moved inside to update both of the Lovegoods as to her day and progress.

Hermione regarded Luna's glassy eyes she locked gaze with her dreamy friend. "It's happening Luna;  _ it's going to happen. _ "


	27. Chapter 27

Rodolphus Lestrange POV 

Rodolphus had woken early, or at least he assumed he had. His back and the joints of his knees heavily protested as he righted himself, stretching as much as was possible in the small space. He lowered himself onto the floor, and began his routine exercises, _some habits die hard_ . The importance of appearance _and appearances,_ had been drilled into him since birth; his father had _insisted_ that himself and Rabastan look immaculate at all times, he was grateful for it, of this particular teaching at least, because of his _quirk_ he had so far managed to avoid the perilous middle spread. Plus, it helped passed the time.

Rodolphus concentrated on lifting his body from the floor again, and ignored the trembling sensation in his arms, brought on by the exertion. He hadn’t been able to do this last time, food had been a lot scarcer in the Azkaban of old, and when they had been broken out, he was a lot thinner than he would have liked. During the time that he was 'free', he had rebuilt himself, and Rodolphus was determined not to waste away again.

A brash clanging sound rang through the corridor as the bars against the cell were unlocked, Rodolphus pulled himself to his feet, taking one last look at the featureless box, before he walked out after the Auror, heading to the shower blocks. This was a new addition since his last sentence. The showers were rusty, the water cold, and the pressure almost non-existent, but for a wizard raised to uphold an almost compulsive level of cleanliness, it was heavenly to stand under the trickling flow, to at least be able to wash off the newest layer of grime.

When he exited the block, he was given a simple set of ‘new’ robes, and was shuffled into a room with all of his possessions. Rodolphus picked up the ring bearing his family crest, and placed it onto his finger; he frowned absentmindedly at the familiar circle of gold being such an unfamiliar weight on his hand. Rodolphus clenched his fist and pointedly ignored how the ring wanted to slip down his finger, nowhere near fitting like it used to. Finally, he reached for the parchment, the only possession that had been in the cell with him that morning.

A week ago, that was when he had received the letter. The first thing that had struck him was that there was no postscript, _she had been here_. When it had first arrived he had spent an age just looking at the envelope, the guard had handed it to him as if he was doing him a great favour, and Rodolphus had baulked at how the man had thrown it at him, with the casual disregard of a wizard who not only hears from people every day, but also has as much reading material as he chooses. It took his mind a long time, to begin with deductions, unused to analytical thinking of any kind. As soon as it occurred to him that it was a feminine hand, his heartbeat had quickened. That could only really mean one person. Rodolphus had opened it, slowly, being careful not even to rip the envelope, inside were two parchment pages, both full front to back with neat, practical script.

Rodolphus read the entire thing six times before he had even begun to take some of it in. For the rest of that first day, he would finish reading the letter and fold it reverently, placing it back into the envelope, only to pick it up again a couple of moments later to re-read, convinced he had imagined some passage or other.

He was getting out. She was getting him out. She was getting _all_ of them out.

Rodolphus hadn't thought this far, hadn't even considered what he would do when he was free. His only focus had been to _survive_ , to get through this sentence and then work out what to do next.

Rodolphus folded the parchment again, placing the envelope delicately into his pocket. It had only been a week since he received it, _how was that possible?_ The seven days had felt as long as an entire year of his first term; time seemed to drag, he was restless and impatient. Rodolphus had found himself pacing constantly, and sleep was even more elusive than usual. He found, with some disgust, that he had gotten used to the wailing cries that the dementors had rung out of the wretches within the damp walls, now they weren't there, Rodolphus found himself kept awake by the relative silence.

That the guards were _reluctant_ for his release was not lost on Rodolphus, they sighed and stretched out the process of getting him from one room to the other as much as possible. If they were expecting some reaction from him, they were sorely, sorely mistaken. Rodolphus could care less that he wasn't well liked by the public, he didn't care for most of them either.

After being delayed for longer than he would have thought possible Rodolphus was finally led to the massive metal doors at the front of the isolated prism. However, despite his impatience to get there, he found when he reached the doorway his body wouldn't cooperate, his booted foot faulted as he moved his leg over the threshold. The future might have been brighter, but he was also walking straight into the unknown for the first time in his life. No master, no overbearing wife, it was time for him to live. Rodolphus sucked in a breath and pushed himself forward only to stop abruptly, unable to proceed again as he took in the unruly curls and hesitant smile of the girl that had come for him.

_She had come for him._

He didn't know what to say as he stared across the rugged landscape at his little girl, his little girl who had never looked hollower, or more love-starved than she did at that moment. Hermione’s hair flew as the wind picked up again and Rodolphus’ mouth ran dry as he pictured a fuller face, a face animated by a wicked smile as the owner laughed outside a cafe. She had never looked more like Jean.

The silence lasted a beat, maybe more, then, throwing off convention, as was normal for her, Hermione rushed forward and wrapped herself around him in a tight hug that Rodolphus returned almost violently, closing his eyes to take in the smell of the sea mingling with her hair.

* * *

When Rodolphus woke the next morning he could be certain of the time and date, having moved both a clock and a calendar into his line of vision the evening before. He was in a comfortable bed, encased in his room in Lestrange Manor, but he woke with a start, slowly calming as his brain processed _where_ he was. And when he did it was felt only a little less revulsion than when waking at the prison. He _hated_ this house. Had always hated it really, at least he could never remember being happy there, even as a child. ‘ _Happiness is not a child's purpose_ , _duty is the only purpose’_ he recited, before sighing audibly, would it have been so much to ask to have had those memories washed from his mind by his lengthy incarceration?

Once Rodolphus had finally let Hermione go yesterday they had come back here, and he broke all civil protocol by not offering her a tour, he doubted she would appreciate much of what Bella's aesthetic had done to the place, it had never been a welcoming abode, but now it was oppressive and hostile. He supposed it was just furnishings, things that could be ripped out and replaced, but to him, the misery of his marriage had permeated the foundations. Rodolphus would find no peace here. Once Rabastan was out the first order of business was to find somewhere else to live, he needed to start living again, or if he was honest, for the first time. He would be finding out who he was, without the constant presence of another, without the revolving chain of influencers in his life, people trying to shape him into what he _ought_ to be. He had never been good enough for any of them, his father, Bella, the Dark Lord, all of them wanted him to be something else. Rodolphus could never win, he was supposed to be strong yet yielding, independent but reliant.

As he rose from the bed he thought about Hermione, the conversation with his daughter the day before had been awkward and even painful in places, though they were both trying. He was amazed to find he didn't think she was doing so because he had _made_ her promise. When she had moved to leave she had asked if he would like to have lunch with her today, and he had readily, if slightly disbelievingly, agreed. He would make this right to the best of his ability.

* * *

They had lunch at Antonin's townhouse, where it would appear Hermione was _quite_ at home, Rodolphus raised his eyebrows as the third elf called her Madam and her cheeks flushed. "I keep asking them not to, but they won't listen to me," she said abashedly.

Rodolphus bit down the first five retorts, it wasn't that he had any _particular_ reason to dislike Dolohov, it would have been hypocritical in the extreme for him to make any bones about the obvious. It was just that when he had first found out about Hermione, he had not anticipated she would already be seriously involved with someone, especially someone so close to his own age, someone who was already acting as her protector, and an effective one at that. Antonin had made sure Hermione had somewhere safe to go when the battle was over, had provided for her financially. The result was that she had no need of _his_ help. Rodolphus had no idea how to act, how to ingratiate himself into her life. It was hard not to be jealous; she trusted the Russian, cared for him, even loved him.

Their conversation flowed slightly easier than the day before, and they talked at length about the plans for Rabastan release the following week. When the plates were cleared away, Hermione shuffled her feet a little, meeting his gaze almost shyly.

"What will you do now?" she asked quietly.

Rodolphus smiled at her, "I intend to speak to Rabastan, about him taking over the manor, I find I have no desire to stay there," he answered honestly, being so frank was a new experience for him, but one he found he might grow to enjoy.

Hermione nodded, "Where will you go?"

"I haven't decided yet, somewhere open." After years in the box like cells of Azkaban, Rodolphus found even the rooms in the large manor dark and confining, he _longed_ for sprawling fields and light, airy spaces.

Understanding dawned on her face, "I see."

The room fell into silence, and Rodolphus hated that it was so uncomfortable, there was so much he wanted to say, apologies he wanted to offer, stories he wanted her to share. But this wasn't about what he wanted, right now it was about Hermione. She apparently needed someone to look out for her, she looked worn and small, her eyes betrayed her underlying sadness, and he realised he didn't know her well enough to comfort her. Rodolphus clenched his hands in front of himself and watched her averted eyes and tense shoulders.

"What's your favourite colour?" he blurted before he could think clearly.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked, tipping her head to the side in confusion.

Rodolphus wiped his hand over his face. "No, I'm sorry that was incredibly blundering of me," he winced, "I… I've missed so much Hermione, as much as it pains me to say, I don't have the first clue who you are, and I know that-"

"Blue," she exclaimed, interrupting him, "I like blue."

The clamping sensation in his chest lightened at her soft admission, and Rodolphus gripped the edge of his chair to stop himself from throwing himself at her feet for her simple display of compassion. Instead, he smiled at her, "I like green," he murmured.

"Well, that's one thing we know," Hermione said with a relieved exhale, and he felt ridiculous for being so encouraged by her expression.

* * *

From the stilted conversation in the library a rather tentative friendship was born. Rodolphus was invited around to have tea with her, Snape and Luna two days later, and when he arrived the trio were in study mode. Hermione explained that they had forms to complete before they could be given a date for Yaxley's release, as well as a letter to draft for someone in Russia who was assisting with the ongoing _discussions_ over Antonin's imprisonment. He watched with some awe as Hermione executed out a complicated Translation Charm, allowing her to write her letter in English before the ink would rearrange itself on the parchment, reforming the sentences in Russian.

He would have liked to help more, but frankly, they looked like they had it all sewn up, _another area where she doesn't need me,_ he thought bitterly. Rodolphus pushed down the resentment he didn't deserve to feel, and observed the interactions between the three in front of him. They were certainly the oddest grouping he had ever seen, and yet, in a weird way, it worked.

Hermione dished out all of the tasks and bossed the other two around, spewing a series of deadlines and key meetings they had to be prepared for, chiding them along. Luna had a knack for consuming reams of complex information on mass and spitting out abridged and to the point conclusions of what could be used and what couldn't. What was even more surprising was how instantly the other two took her view, no matter how crazy it may have sounded to Rodolphus, Hermione and Snape would only look thoughtful for a moment before nodding along.

Severus snarled and complained the entire time he was there, he called Hermione ‘insufferable wench’ and ‘Madam’, and each time she would beam at him. Rodolphus detected the slightest softening of the wizard's eyes whenever he looked at her; he also observed how Snape would sneak the biscuits placed on his saucer onto either Luna or Hermione's plate, both girls could certainly do with eating more. That the dour wizard was in love with Hermione was not in question, at least as far as Rodolphus was concerned, though the love did not seem to be one of expectation. Irritating as Rodolphus had always found Snape, he could never have denied that Severus was a talented man, and no one could have been in a room with Hermione and Antonin without knowing where her happy ever after laid, and yet Severus had not deserted her. If only for that reason Rodolphus promised himself to _try_ and befriend the dark haired wizard who had looked after her when no one else was able to.

* * *

Rab proposed to Luna almost at the gates of the prison itself. His little brother was dirty, desperate, broken and yet Luna looked at him like he hung the moon. Rabastan looked at her as if he was dependant on the girl for his next breath, gripping her so tightly, as if he were afraid she would slip through his fingers, it was a side to his brother Rodolphus had never seen.

He and Hermione stood way back as the two lovers greeted each other, and he attempted to keep a stoic face as Severus kept up an acerbic running commentary beside them. Hermione smiled brighter than she had since his release, though her eyes shone with tears as she watched her friend. She had unexpectedly asked him to stay at the townhouse for a few nights, which Rodolphus gratefully accepted. Time with her was the most precious commodity, and even more so when that time was at her particular request. He understood the subtext, giving the couple space, but even if there was an ulterior motive, it didn't take away from his happiness.

* * *

Two days later Rodolphus returned to his current home to seek out his brother for more than the small conversation they had so far snatched. He realised, as Rab enthused and gesticulated about the future, how much he had retreated from his little brother in the previous year's, switching himself off from those around him. He had so much to make up for.

"We need to speak," he broached eventually, as they sat facing each other in front of the fire in the study.

"Of course, what about?" Rabastan inquired, his face already looking less hollow, his eyes more alive.

"This place," Rodolphus said waving an arm about himself.

Rabastan looked concerned, sitting forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "If you want me to leave?"

"No of course not,” Rodolphus replied with a shake of the head. “ _I want to go_ , I have found a small holding in the country, and I want to place an offer."

"But what about the Manor?" Rabastan replied astonished, Rodolphus smiled softly, Rab had always loved their home so much more than Dolph ever had.

"You can have it," he said dismissively.

"But your heir?" Rab protested.

"About that," he sighed, "I have no intention of marrying again-"

"Come on now, Dolph you don't-" Rabastan interrupted.

Rodolphus placed his hands up, "Let me finish," Rab nodded looking bewildered. "I do not intend to marry again, and I have thought about this and consulted with our solicitors, if you are in agreement, I would like to transfer the title of heir to you, that way _your_ children would inherit."

Rabastan dropped back into his chair, "But what about-"

"I assure you, I will not be having children, well, any more children," Dolph clarified, and Rabastan went to speak, but his brother silenced him with a look. "Hermione will not want this, apart from one exception, which I will talk to you about when I have spoken to her."

"I will need to think about this," Rabastan muttered, and Rodolphus agreed to his request for time, he knew he would accept, eventually. Rabastan had _loved_ this house as a child, and with Luna as his wife, he had a chance of making it a warm, loving home.

"Now we mention your children," Rodolphus said with a smile, "what about your wedding?"

A small smile inched across his brother's face; he looked so much younger like that. "Luna wants to wait until we are _all_ back together again."

Rodolphus reached across the space between them to pat his brother roughly on the shoulder. He had heard Luna saying something along those lines earlier, it made it sound as if they had all been on a happy holiday and not cooped up fighting in a war.

"And what about you?" he asked cautiously, Rab had never had lots of patience when it came to getting what he wanted.

"I would marry her today, but I understand her sentiments, she wants Hermione to be happy." Rodolphus followed then; Luna was holding off believing Hermione be would hurt if she were to attend their wedding without Antonin. He supposed it was true, in a way, though he was sure Hermione would protest if she were ever told about the idea.

"They love each other like family, strange to think they will be soon," Rodolphus remarked idly, looking out at the damp grass, preparing himself for what was to come.

* * *

Several months had passed, and his release was almost a distant memory by the time that Rodolphus was introduced to Ginny Weasley. Hermione had explained what she had done, the lengths she had gone to in a series of conversations, he wasn't sure he’d ever felt such overwhelming pride.

He thanked the girl profusely, if a little formerly, for helping Hermione with her cause. The redhead was clearly uncomfortable, and he would have walked away quickly had he not had occasion to request more of her assistance. "Miss Weasley, it would be a great personal favour to me if you could deliver this letter," he said crisply.

Ginny put her hand forward and falteringly accepted the parchment; her face shot up when she read the direction. "Really?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, indeed," he confirmed, trying to hold back any hesitation from his tone.

Her eyes flashed for just a moment. "Oh well, it's your funeral," she said, not unkindly, and marched away.

Rodolphus huffed out a small laugh, as he mentally crossed another thing off his list. He had underestimated them he realised, Hermione’s little band of friends, it made him surer of his convictions, the plans he had made.

* * *

It had taken a long while to get the visit, Rodolphus had been to see Minerva McGonagall twice before she would even let him in the room, but the third time he had managed to stay long enough to explain his purpose. It would appear his little daughter had touched many people in her relatively short life. Rodolphus was finding with some amazement that though people had mostly turned their backs on her during her time of need, guilt was a powerful motivator, and he wasn't afraid of exploiting it to serve his own ends. When the new Headmistress had finally heard his request, she had granted him the half an hour he had asked for in her office.

Rodolphus moved into the space slowly, taking in the changes that had been made since his own time at Hogwarts, many years ago. It appeared that Minerva had removed the majority of the nick knacks that had taken up every surface in the time of the last headmaster and in fact the one before that. As he approached the centre of the room, his eyes scanned until he found the portrait he was looking for.

"Professor Dumbledore I have some questions," he began formally, taking a wide stance and crossing his arms in front of himself.

"Mr Lestrange," the old wizard answered cordially, and sat up straighter in his ornate frame. "What could I possibly help you with?" his eyes twinkled, and Rodolphus bit down the desire to set fire to his blasted canvas.

"You will forgive me if I just get right to the point, I never did enjoy unnecessarily beating around the bush," he said lowly, and Dumbledore made a continuing gesture with his hands. "How long did you know that Hermione Granger was my daughter?"

The portrait spluttered, "How could… I never had any clue… not any indication…."

_Nice try old man._

"Jean Greenwood was an intelligent woman; I doubt that changed after she married, she was also obsessive about information, anytime she learnt _anything_ new she needed to know everything about it, her daughter is the same. If a witch came to her house, sat in her living room, telling her that her daughter had magic she would have reached out to someone. She must have held a question in her heart over Hermione's paternity, but she wouldn't have known anyone in the magical world, apart from Minerva, or you, as I assume your name is still on the Hogwarts letters, so who did she contact?"

Dumbledore held his gaze for a long moment, "Jean Granger sent along a note when Hermione arrived for her first term, the girl passed the letter to a teacher, who gave it to me."

Rodolphus’ fists clenched and unclenched against his torso, the action covered by his folded arms. "What. Did. It. Say?" he bit out.

The portrait sighed, "She asked about how magic was inherited and… she also asked if I knew of anyone in my world by the name of Rodolphus Lestrange."

"What did you tell her?" he asked quietly, the thought of Jean knowing his crimes was almost too much to bare.

"I told her nothing, I told her I had never heard of you, there was no further communication."

"And even after all of this, you still did not seek to protect them? You left Hermione to do it by herself; you could not have known that I was in ignorance, she would have been an even bigger target than before."

"I understand she had help," he spat, the twinkle having faded from his crystal blue eyes now.

"Oh, that annoyed you did it? Severus not acting on your orders."

"You will not want to hear this but I was wholly focused on the war effort, the resources could not be spared," Dumbledore rattled off, but Rodolphus had never fallen for his claptrap.

"Save your lies for somehow who will believe them. What happened to her letter?"

"I burnt it," Dumbledore said defiantly.

Rodolphus bit his tongue to stop the rage that was threatening to take over his body, "Be grateful you are dead old man," he sneered before leaving the office. He marched passed Minerva, sparing her a short nod, he had already delivered her offer for tea to Hermione, he had no other business there.

Rodolphus breathed a huge sigh of relief once he made it into the grounds, instantly calming once he was away from the confines of the castle. Severus had told him all about Hermione’s parents, how they had tried to retrieve them, their memories, without success.

Sometimes Rodolphus contemplated going over there himself, just to see her once more, it was an impulse that had struck him many times in his life, all the more constant now that he _knew_ her locations. He resisted, though, as much as he would have loved to just gaze upon her, see how time had changed her, what he wanted were answers, and she was no longer able to give them. _Had she always known? From the moment she felt the swell of her stomach? Had she thought of him as he had thought of her over the years? A combination of salvation and damnation all rolled into one person. Would she have tried to find him? Would she have told her husband?_ In the end, none of it mattered, she was gone, and he had Hermione now, _he knew about her now_ , and somehow he had found a way into her life.

Walking down the long drive, Rodolphus took one last look at the imposing castle before he apparated away.

* * *

The whole rabble came to see Yaxley released. They had received the date a month before, Hermione almost wrenching it from the Minister's hands, and unbelievably, despite her worst fears, there hadn't been a retraction. They were in the closing stages of getting the same for Antonin, though there were still a few hoops to jump through, the end was now definitely in sight. Hermione had managed to fill out a little, the combination of managing more sleep and a little more food had her looking a lot better than Rodolphus had seen her in recent years. She was standing a little away from the group, closer to the entrance, it could be overwhelming when you first came out, and she seemed to understand that as she watched the doors expectantly. Rodolphus and the others instinctively took another step back as Hermione jogged forward when the doorway was filled by the Northern wizards frame.

"Little duck?" he rasped.

"Hi Reuben," Hermione answered gently, wrapping him in a hug that she had to stand on her tiptoes to deploy, just like she had done to Rodolphus all those months before. He saw Yaxley's face shutter, he knew that look, knew how it felt to have human contact after months, years, of nothing.

"That's the first time you've called me by my given name," he murmured.

"It seemed appropriate," she whispered back.

Yaxley's face looked serious as he let Hermione go, "I underestimated you," he said forlornly, running a dirty hand over her cheek.

"No talk of that, let's go home, get you some clean clothes and food," Hermione replied, slipping into ‘Mum’ mode, as she often did when she became emotional.

"And you'll update me on what's happening?" Yaxley asked, slight desperation in his voice.

She knew what he was asking, "The Antonin situation is all in hand."

Yaxley clasped the side of her face and dropped his forehead to hers, "Thank you, Hermione."

Rodolphus noticed the rough swallow she made before speaking, "No need for thanks, Reuben, I made you a promise do you remember?” The wizard nodded with a small smiled on his face, “and in any case, you are my family, and I have it on good authority that in this one, we look after our own."

* * *

Rodolphus stood outside the ramshackle house in Ottery St Catchpole and roughly exhaled as he straightened his shoulders before passing through the wards. He had been _assured_ he would be able to move through them without harm, but he still felt relieved as nothing offensive bit against his skin as he walked through the invisible barrier.

The kitchen door was open, and after a moment's contemplation, he let himself inside, finding Molly Weasley sat at the kitchen table, a tea service out in front of her, in what he assumed was her impression of a pureblood matrons intimidating pose. Rodolphus clutched the response to his letter in his hand, forcing down the urge to hold the parchment aloft in case she began hexing him for coming to her home without an invitation. The rest of house was empty; he was sure he would have been able to detect if anyone else was there. Clearly, she wanted to have this conversation in private.

They stared at each other for long minutes before she eventually sagged, "Sit down then, we best get this over with."

Despite her apparent desire for expediency, conversation remained elusive as Molly poured the tea. Rodolphus took a seat in front of her and decided it was probably best to begin. "Thank you for seeing me Mrs Weasley; it is not my intention to take up a lot of your time."

"What do you want from me?” she interrupted sharply, pausing her movements to fix him with a cold glare, ‘I'm assuming this has to do with Hermione, as I have no idea what you would want with me otherwise. I would have thought myself beneath the notice of the Lestrange's, both as a Prewett and a Weasley," she said with an air of defiance that he remembered from the Molly Weasley of old.

Rodolphus halted until the drinks were finished and Molly handed him a cup. “Hermione misses you."

"As well she might," Molly snapped, "she knows what she has to do if she wants to come here again."

Rodolphus fought down the response he wanted to give, hearing her raised voice and anger directed towards his daughter. "You must know that's not possible," he replied levelly, taking a sip of his drink.

"Then we have nothing further to discuss," Molly replied hotly, averting her eyes.

"Would you have given up Arthur, if you had been asked to as a young woman?" he asked gently.

"No, but it's hardly the same is it?"

"I understand-"

"NO. YOU. DON'T," she yelled. Rodolphus started at the vehemence in her voice; it was only then he noticed the tears in her eyes. "I _loved_ that girl, she had been friends with my Ron since their first year, she chided him, looked after him, they were _destined_ for each other, she was going to be part of this family-" her voice trailed off. "She was _already_ a part of this family, and then she goes and falls in love with the man… he killed both of my brothers."

Rodolphus looked away while she sobbed into his proffered handkerchief, only looking back when she had once again composed herself. Molly cleared her throat, "I am sorry for the way I spoke to her before, I had just buried my son, Fred, he was a twin too just like-" Her expression looked so pained, Rodolphus opened his mouth to speak but decided it was best to wait until she had calmed down, she coughed and cleared her throat, her voice was stronger when she spoke again.

"How is she? She… she didn't look well at the trial… she always loses a lot of weight when she… when she is upset or stressed."

"She is-” Rodolphus searched for the right expression, “she is somewhat better, overworking herself and burdened otherwise… better."

Molly nodded, "I will not be able to see her, not while she has entangled herself with that man, I cannot agree with her choices," she said as if daring Rodolphus to judge her, which was not his intention in the slightest.

"I am not expecting you to."

"Then what are you here for?"

"Hermione is a practical, logical girl, and she is struggling with a number of things in her life that have no real conclusion. She found out about me and is unable to speak to her mother about it. I ask that we find a way to smooth this over."

“I have been clear,” Molly interrupted, and Rodolphus nodded.

"Not to resolve it,” he continued, “but to put it to bed, I'm sure neither of you wants your last conversation to be the end."

Molly looked pensive as she straightened the crockery on the table. "Ron told me about her parents, it was irreversible I take it?"

"Yes," he replied softly, he had his own guilt to bare in that regard, the fact that Jean Granger would never know her daughter again in part because of the threat he, and his group of allies represented, would weigh heavy on him for the rest of his life.

The red haired woman swirled her finger around the top of her cup from the mismatched set. "I can't forgive her for this, but I don't want every time we meet to be an argument in the middle of Diagon Alley either… I will write her a letter," she said resolved.

Rodolphus mentally crossed an item off the ever growing list in his mind; there was so much he had to do, so much to atone for. He would start by doing whatever he could to ease Hermione’s mind.

He waited while Molly wrote her letter, and he left the Burrow without looking back, knowing he would never go there again. He apparated directly to the townhouse and went straight to find Hermione, helped by a couple of elves that seemed to keep tabs on her night and day, he found her in the library and handed the parchment over. He said nothing when faced with her curious expression, as she bounded out of the leather seat, or when her wide eyes raised in question as she recognised the script.

Rodolphus held her while she cried, secured his arms around her, this time without stiffness, the soothing words that had died in his throat at the Battle poured forth, a constant stream of affection and hope, as he stroked her hair.

* * *

Hermione had been dumbstruck when he set his proposal down in front of her, Rodolphus had waited to ask her this for a while, but he wanted her to know him better, to trust his intentions before he made his feelings known. "What about Rabastan?" she asked, as she ran her fingers over the stack of organised parchments.

"He has no more desire for the seat than I do Hermione," he assured gently.

"But the Wizengamot-"

"Neither myself or Rab would carry any weight there, not now, but you could," he recited, her objections had been easy to predict, he was more than prepared for whatever she might say.

Her eyes glinted, "Why, because I'm a half-blood now?"

Rodolphus sighed, "Yes and no. I know you don't like it, but your change in blood-status will make a difference to how you are viewed, it would be beneficial in the long run to ignore the comments, and take the opportunity to make changes."

She stared at the page for a long time, "I'll think about it."

He knew she would accept eventually, she was made for that kind of environment, he had been with her a few times when she visited the Ministry or some diplomat or other, as she debated and campaigned on their behalf. Rodolphus had noticed how they looked at her; some regarded her with wry amusement, some with genuine interest but not with derision, not anymore, they might not agree with her, but somehow, she had earned their respect.

Rodolphus had wanted her to take his name as well, had even gone so far as to put it into the proposal he set in front of her, such things had to be done formally. He was actioning the conversation he had with Rabastan all that time ago; his farm was bought, it was time to start moving on. However he’d had a change of heart and taken it out, things with her were improving, their relationship was friendly if not familiar... _Yet._ He hoped her joining the Wizengamot would be another area he could be of use to her, something else he could bond with her over. It seemed silly to labour the point about a name when any change was likely to be temporary.

* * *

Rodolphus took it as a testament to how far they had come when Hermione asked him to go with her when she went to get Antonin. They once again stood outside the prison, just himself, Hermione and Reuben this time. Throughout this entire year, she had been a tower of strength, and he had no idea how she had done it for so long, it was now two years since the final Battle, and yet, for Hermione, there had been nothing definitive about it. She had been fighting this whole time, and now they were here, Rodolphus could see how _desperate_ she was for it to all be over.

Hermione stood almost bouncing on the balls of her feet, and for once Reuben didn't tease her, the Northern wizard simply laid a hand on her shoulder, occasionally whispering things into her ear that would make her still for minutes at a time before the nervous fidgeting would begin again.

Merlin knew Rodolphus would have rather have been anywhere else in the world than looking at the prison, but he would go anywhere she asked. The fact that she had asked him to come when she needed support, that she was allowing him to see her in such a vulnerable state meant more to him than anything.

Finally, after waiting for over an hour in the freezing cold, the doors snapped open, though instead of rushing towards the entrance as he had anticipated, Hermione collapsed towards the jagged rocks. Reuben must have been more prepared as he caught her by the waist before her knees hit the unforgiving ground. He scooped Hermione up, silently, pulling her into him as they walked over to Dolohov. Antonin hadn't moved from his place at the threshold, his face obscured by messy hair and an even more rumpled beard, but his glassy eyes were fixed on Hermione as she sobbed into Reuben’s neck.

When they got closer, the Russian took her from his friend, gently picking her up and cradling her against his chest. Despite how tired and worn he must have been he wouldn't let her go. Antonin closed his eyes as her hands ran over his face, reaching to grip the ends of his long hair, almost tearing at him to get closer, he gripped her tighter as she cried. Antonin exchanged a few words with Yaxley, who still had a hand against Hermione's spine, whether in case his friend dropped her or just to let her know he was there, Rodolphus wasn't sure.

They moved over to the apparition point, and Rodolphus shook the man’s hand as he continued to whisper a mixture of Russian and English into Hermione's ear as she calmed down.

“You’ll have to put her down to apparate,” Reuben advised quietly, and Antonin reflexively gripped Hermione tighter as she shook her head vehemently against his chest.

He gently moved her hair away from the side of her face and moved to speak against her ear. “A moment now solnyshko, and then never again,” he soothed.

Hermione insisted that Antonin and Yaxley go first, once she had finally let go, Rodolphus understood, she wouldn't have been able to trust that she had got them off the island otherwise. As soon as the pop sounded, she gripped Rodolphus’ hand and nodded when he asked if she was ready. Rodolphus took one last look at the decaying grey brick before he squeezed his little girl hand, taking her far, far away.


	28. Chapter 28

All my pictures of you

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

* * *

Winter 2005

* * *

Antonin followed the sound of raised voices through the corridors of his winter home; the snow was beginning to fall steadily outside, the light, picture postcard flurry being replaced by a full blown blizzard. He dodged the elves that were scampering about trying to keep the fires lit; he expected their urgency was owing to a desire to keep Hermione warm, and therefore happy. They all danced attendance on his wife, in much the same way as the elves in their London home did. Hermione had found it strange at first, she had explained to his personal elf how the elves at Hogwarts hadn't liked her because of her S.P.E.W. campaign, and the little elf had smiled indulgently at her and carried on. They seemed to find her interest in their welfare eccentric and endearing, rather than harmful.

Antonin’s determined stride was halted by a mass of blonde hair streaming past him down the hall; he accelerated to pick up Perdita before she ran straight into a wall, she had done it before. The squirming three year old laughed at his attempts to control her exploits, and he hoisted her up over his shoulder, as he stepped into the main reception room where everyone else was scattered, stopping to safely deposit the giggling mass of flying limbs onto Luna's lap. The little girl was the mirror image of her mother, with her fair hair and dreamy expression, but in personality, she was all Rabastan, too much emotion in too small a body, _she was never still._

Antonin collapsed into a wingback chair, next to Yax, who had found a similarly comfortable spot, his friend immediately handed him a liberal measure of firewhisky which prompted his silent toasting of thanks. When the first two sips went down a little too quickly Antonin made to check the time, to see how long dinner would be, pulling out his old pocket watch that had once belonged to his father. Antonin had begun wearing it after he had gotten out of prison, when he and Hermione had started sorting out the townhouse to turn it into their home. Reuben said it made him look like an old man but he liked it, and he liked carrying something that reminded him of his parents. Antonin often wondered what they would have made of Hermione, against all the odds he had found himself with a person that made him as happy as they were, though he probably didn't deserve such bliss, he believed they would have been proud of him.

Opening the polished silver cover his eyes were drawn away from the clock face, as usual, moving to the underside of the lid, where, delicately placed, was a picture of a dancing girl being whirled around the floor. Only this image was different to the one he had carried around all those years before. The girl was the same, the same chestnut curls, the same sparkling brown eyes, but in this picture her dress was not a soft blue, but a shimmering, brilliant white. The silk hugged her more mature frame, the voluminous skirt waving around her like distant clouds. In this photo the wizard dancing with her, enjoying her attention and smiles was him. Antonin was sure he was _supposed_ to say his wedding day had been the best of his life, but he couldn't be certain that was true, the day had been fantastic, but he’d had so many truly beautiful days with Hermione, he could no longer put them in ranking order.

When she had secured his release from Azkaban they had taken the time to put themselves, and each other, back together. Antonin had walked into what felt like a ready-made family. Luna and Rabastan had been waiting for his return to get married and only waited three more months, marrying in the December of that year. Luna had decided on a _traditional_ wedding, and she stood in front of a small circle of guests, naked as the day she was born, warming charms placed at her feet that were sunk into the deep snow covering the rear gardens of Lestrange Manor. Antonin and Rodolphus had stood on either side of Hermione, both taking it in turns to glare at her, as she couldn't help laughing as they struggled to hide their discomfort, neither knowing where to look. It could have been much worse.

The month before Hermione had come home with what she had described as ‘Luna's offering, of a comprise Maid of Honour outfit’. The dress, if it could have been called that, consisted of a flesh coloured netting material, that fell to the floor, with only a few artfully placed flowers protecting her modesty. When Hermione had walked into the bedroom wearing it, Antonin had felt all of his advanced years, convinced that he was going to have a heart attack, the feeling of tightness in his chest only intensifying when she explained that she would be expected to wear _that_ in front of _other_ people. After a furious argument and an even fiercer coupling against the wall, more appropriate robes were decided on, and Hermione admitted she had never intended to wear the dress in any case. Antonin had realised then how skilfully he had been played; it would not be the last time.

After the Lestrange wedding, he had convinced Hermione to take her N.E.W.Ts, education was incredibly important to her, and though he understood, and was eternally grateful to her, for putting them off, he knew she would regret it if she never completed her schooling. After speaking to the Headmistress, Minerva allowed her to come to the school to take the exams the following year, and Hermione agreed. They divided their time between helping her study and making changes around the home.

As soon as she had obtained her qualifications, they took Severus up on his offer to procure potions ingredients for his store. It allowed Antonin to be with Hermione, and to have time with her _away_ from everyone else, though _all_ of them made annoyingly regular visits. After all of his years alone, he felt he had time to make up for. A year globe-trotting later, they came back to England and got married quietly at their home. Hermione had never left the townhouse once he came back from prison, Antonin simply couldn't stand to be away from her for extended periods of time.

A week after their wedding Reuben had given him the picture he was staring at now, smiling knowingly as he passed it over. His friend had been present the first time he had ever seen a picture of Hermione, and knew the effect that seeing such a similar shot would have on him. But it was different now. In this picture, she was _his,_ like he had been hers from the moment he had seen her.

When the news of their marriage broke the press took up the fallen mantle and vilified Hermione once again. Rita Skeeter wrote a _ten-page exclusive_ , detailing every fictitious shame and fault his wife supposedly had. The article contained slander after slander, starting with manufactured events from when Hermione was little more than a child. Antonin had been livid, and he wasn't the only one, though when he read the next weeks Quibbler to find an article entitled ‘Tea with Hermione Dolohov’, where Luna pointedly questioned Hermione on her growing concerns for Skeeter's sanity he lost his murderous intent and began to find the whole situation rather funny.

Antonin looked across at Luna who was still sat on the floor, clutching a mug to her chest, Perdita was now on the other side of the room, being entertained by her uncle. Hermione had cried snotty tears when her friend had named their child, and again when they asked her to be godmother, Hermione's tears had triggered Luna's and both himself and Rabastan, former Death Eaters, stood utterly powerless as the women sobbed, embracing each other. Both now in effect motherless, the girls clung to each other even more. Hermione was _actively_ involved in Perdita's life, but, though the little girl loved her 'Auntie Mi', everyone knew she only had eyes for Rodolphus. From when she was too small to walk the tiny blonde, and the older wizard had formed an unquestionable bond. For a man that had been robbed of the chance to raise his daughter, being able to be involved in the caring for his niece healed something in him.

Antonin’s eyes were distracted by a sudden soft wave of magic; Luna was waving her wand hanging some snowflakes she had taken from outside earlier, as Perdy clapped animatedly, that girl was made for the winter.

While travelling around the world, Antonin had taken Hermione to Russia, back to Sochi where he had been born. He had felt compelled to return after he had learnt everything the ambassador had done for his case. They ended up coming back to the town often and then, three years ago, they had bought this house, and it had become an unofficial tradition for them all to congregate here for Yule.

Antonin looked over at his little wife who was ardently discussing something with Severus; the more her arms flailed, the deeper the dark haired wizard scowled. She had a thick jumper on, despite the raging fire, and Antonin fought the smile off his face. Hermione had not adapted quickly to life in Russia; she sank in the snow, was terrible on skates, and was entirely convinced the atmosphere messed with her hair even more than humidity had in warmer climes. She went because _he_ loved it, at first, and then she had fallen in love with the house. Once you were cosy inside you could enjoy the beautiful picture postcard views, so she said.

Christmas and the New Year were always a time of reflection; this year had been more monumental than most, this year his parole had ended. They had been _model wizards_ during their term, knowing the government would be looking for an excuse and not even Hermione would have been able to save them. In September Antonin had received his official notification from the Ministry, signed by the Minister himself, there had been a sigh of relief when it had come through, and Hermione had collapsed on the floor, a sobbing mess, when he had handed it to her, it was days before her shaking abated. After all this time she had still been terrified that someone would take him away from her. Antonin had held her even tighter than usual that night, whispering comforting words in her ear;  ‘The only person who will take me from you is death, and you can be sure I'll put up a fight, even against them’.

Hermione looked so happy, whooping with delight as she declared herself the winner of her debate with Severus, today it was almost impossible to think of how she had been then. Hermione had grown into herself since he had first known her, the world being at peace had allowed her to relax. She had thrown herself into everything with more vigour than even he would have thought possible. She explained once that she had felt her life had been on pause since she was fourteen, Antonin had felt his life had been on hold till he met her.

They had built their lives around this random group of people, who had been thrown together by circumstance. All linked in together somehow. Without the threat of punishments and machinations to make them suspicious of one another the former Death Eater colleagues built bonds of friendship. The dynamics hadn't changed much, they were still the same people, but they respected and appreciated each other more. Just like a family born of blood, everyone had their role to play; Severus and Hermione squabbled like siblings but were the first line of defence for each other if anyone else had anything to say. Antonin and Rodolphus debated political reform, always seeming to have opposing views, though he was fairly sure there were times when his father-in-law was just baiting him. Rabastan and Luna made _everyone_ uncomfortable with their overzealous displays of affection. Rodolphus bored them all to death with stories of a pig or some such he had just brought, and Reuben fought with everyone, especially Severus, and yet the two men seemed to rate the intelligence of each other to the exclusion of almost anyone else.

It was chaotic, noisy and often confrontational, but none of them would have had it any other way.

* * *

Summer 2006

* * *

Luna had just dropped all of her _many_ bags behind her desk when the owl post arrived, a small flurry of birds swooped in, depositing a multitude of brightly coloured parchment envelopes on her disorganised desk. A broad smile lit up her face as she sat up in her chair, spinning it around idly as she fingered through the letters. Most were affirmative responses to Perdita's birthday party. When she had gone through the stack, Luna tallied the count and sent a quick note off to Hermione so that she could update her record. Her friend was handling everything for the day, and Luna couldn't have been more grateful. Hermione's natural organisational skills made her _perfect_ for looking after all the arrangements, and that way Luna could work on decorations at home, in the limited free time she had at the moment.

She had taken over as editor of The Quibbler six months before, when her father had sat her down and told her he wanted to take a step back. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and the war had taken its toll, and yet, Luna suspected that Xeno may have been overplaying his feelings slightly, and was just desirous of seeing her in what he had long considered to be her ‘rightful place. Luna had been hesitant about making such a large commitment, she loved being at home with her daughter, but neither of them could think of anyone that would better uphold the standards that her dad had created. Luna had been raised by a single working father, and she had never felt the absence of love or time from him, if she worked hard Perdita would feel the same.

She glanced up at the pictures all over her desk of her family and friends, taking in their happy faces as they waved to her from their mismatched frames. Luna had never imagined she would have all of this. Her mother had told her before she died, that she would have great love in her life, Luna felt slightly ashamed now that despite her mother's words never being wrong she’d had moments, while still at Hogwarts, where she hadn't believed the premonition.

Her upbringing had been unusual, to say the least, her interaction with other children before school had been minimal and mostly unsuccessful. She had tried to speak to them, in the same way, that she did the creatures or flowers that she discovered around her home, but they did not respond in the same way. Some were mean, some laughed, but worse some ignored her. Luna remembered her mother's face when she had come home one day, excitedly asking if she had become invisible, she hadn't understood the look of pain etched into her mother’s face, but she did now.

Luna had been so excited when she found out she was going to Hogwarts, although she was sad to be leaving her father, he had assured her that she was off to begin the first of what would become a life filled with adventures. Only she found that things were much the same there, people didn't understand, people looked passed her, until the little cluster of Gryffindors had befriended her.

She stretched out in her chair and grabbed the first stack of proposals, shaking herself from her rambling thoughts and got down to work.

Lunch time rolled around quickly as she was so busy, readership for The Quibbler had gone up before it had closed down during the war. Those people remained faithful to the publication even in times of peace, and Luna had spent an hour of the day discussing preliminary plans to begin distribution in Paris and Rome.

She walked through the floo in her office, stepping straight into the manor, and into the waiting arms of the man she had called husband for five years. "What are you doing here? You don't have to wait for me?" she softly chastised.

"I know," he mumbled into her hair. "You got up so early this morning I didn't get the chance to say goodbye properly," he abruptly pulled away from her, "come now, the other Lestrange's are starving, we've been waiting for you."

Luna was dragged along behind Rabastan, laughing at his enthusiasm for a regular Tuesday afternoon meal. Perdita was sat at the round table, looking quite the little lady in her soft yellow dress, though the overall effect was enhanced by multicoloured splotches of paint that covered almost all of her exposed skin. Her easel was resting in the corner, bright and patchy hand prints all over a single canvas. Perdita had declared yesterday that she was making a picture for her mother’s office, and had brought it into the small dining room to ‘show her progress’. Luna preferred the comfy room to the ample larger ones throughout the home. Though they had extensively redecorated, stripping away all of the stuffy formality, this was their family room, it opened with French doors onto the garden and was bathed in light all year round.

Luna had never behaved like a typical pureblood lady, and motherhood had not changed her. She had worried when she was pregnant that Rabastan would expect her to raise their child in a certain way, it turned out to be just the opposite, he was generally in more of a mess than their daughter. Luna smiled as she spotted tell-tale smudges under his fingernails and tipped her head to regard the hand prints that looked decidedly too large on Perdy’s canvas, he only winked at her.

Rabastan seemed to relive his childhood again through their little girl, though this time he was free to be whomever he wanted to be, in many ways Perdita had that effect on the whole group. All of them cautious of the tiny life that was amongst them now, all of them concerned that she would be doomed to commit the same mistakes they had. Luna would shake her head at them, out of sight, they couldn't see things the way she did, couldn't see how being brought up, bathed in so much love, was the perfect upbringing for anyone.

When she had been heavily pregnant, she had gone shopping with Hermione, to get the last of the items that she needed, Hermione, as ever, had done extensive reading and had a monumentally comprehensive list, even by her standards. As they were leaving the last store a couple of witches approached them, sneers on their faces, their auras swirling and red. Luna knew the second Hermione had noticed them as the curly-haired witch moved into a defensive stance ahead of her, her friend had always been protective, and that had only magnified while she was pregnant. Between Hermione, Rabastan and the rest, Luna had been lucky to be able to pour a drink unaided, she had gotten support from Yaxley, who would tell them all to back off, but he had then loudly told her husband how 'erotic' she looked while large with child at 'family dinner' and lost whatever influence he had exerted previously. The women told her how disgusted they were by her marriage, her pregnancy, how she would never be happy, how she was condemning her child to life on the margins of society. Luna had stood back, barely listening with a serene smile on her face before laying an arm on her friend's shoulder to hold Hermione back if necessary.

Luna looked around the dining room, at her doting husband and her paint splattered daughter.

They couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

Reuben sauntered up the stairs to the Dolohov townhouse, moving at a rate Hermione would have described as ‘taking his sweet time’. He was already an hour late, so a few minutes more would hardly hurt. Not that it mattered, none of them stood on ceremony for 'family dinner' anyway. He was let in by a cheerful elf, whistling off-key, and made his way to the sunroom at the back of the house. Hermione had spent so much time in the one in his home during the war that Antonin had one constructed on his property, as a wedding gift to her. It linked up to the Dolohov library through double doors on one side, and as such was always where Hermione could be found, she described it as her earthbound paradise. It was also where she hosted when it was the Dolohov's turn; Hermione felt the dining room was way too formal for such occasions, and despite his upbringing, Reuben agreed.

Dinner had just been served as he entered the room and he made his way to the table nodding his head and rolling his eyes at the familiar ribbing for his lateness.

As he began to reach for plates he noticed a few weird looks being sent in his direction; it set him on edge, he turned to look at Antonin, who was pushing more food onto Hermione’s plate as she chatted to Rabastan, managing to mouth ‘what?’ at his friend. Antonin made a sharp gesture with his hand Reuben he couldn't follow. 'What?' he mouthed again, more insistently this time. Antonin did not get a chance to respond.

"He is gesturing to the bruises on your neck," Luna singsonged.

_Ah_ . Well, he hadn't thought to look there, he was running rather late from his latest _assignation_ and hadn't bothered to look in the mirror once he had thrown his clothes on.

Reuben looked up to find half the rooms occupants still looking at him. "Less of the po faces, I've spent enough time in close quarters with you lot to know you're not untouched flowers, so floor show is over, back to your food."

Hermione set down her fork, a clear indicator that she was about to launch into a lecture, and he glanced at her impatiently, wishing she would wait until he had eaten before starting up again.

"You should find yourself a nice witch and settle down Reuben, you're certainly attractive enough, and most days you have what passes for manners."

"Is this all that is required now? How standards have slipped," Snape drawled.

"Piss off you, they’re still high enough to prevent you getting your end away," he retorted.

"Could you keep it down to a dull roar Yax, _my child_ is in his room," Rabastan sighed wearily.

Reuben wasn't listening; he was too busy trying to suppress his laughter at the look Antonin had just shot his wife. His friend had been married for nearly five years, but it didn't stop his possessive streak, he didn't seem that happy to hear Hermione's inadvertent praise.

"Why would I need that, when I have you to fuss over me little duck?" Antonin's glare redirected to him; it held a promise that their next practice duel might have less _formal_ rules than normal.

Luna quickly diverted the conversation and talk turned to that weekend. All of the wizards present were off to Italy for two nights, a plan that was quietly considered mutually beneficial. Perdita's party was next weekend, and the men wanted to be out of the way while Luna and Hermione continued going above and beyond for the day. Additionally, they all wanted to go somewhere they could talk strategy in the event something went wrong. This was the first time they had invited _other people_ to one of their important family events. Birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas had always been reserved for just the seven of them, well, eight now, with the little one. But both witches had _insisted_ that this time more needed to come. They had all agreed, reluctantly, they had all been somewhat isolated as children, and Reuben knew he didn't want that for the bright-eyed girl, but old habits die hard and if people were coming into the fold, albeit briefly, they would want to be prepared, to protect their loved ones, from physical, or more likely, emotional upset.

"So what are the plans for the Saturday?" Hermione asked, breaking Yaxley’s train of thought.

He looked up momentarily at Antonin who made an almost imperceptible shake of his head; it would appear that Hermione did not know about the Muggle motorbike rental company they had made contact with. "You know the usual, searching for things of unparalleled beauty, whether they be located amidst stunning vistas, dusty wine racks or between women's thi-”

"Perdita is _just there_ Yax," Hermione whisper yelled, her face breaking into a rosy hue.

"Is that what you're worried about Hermione? _Really?_ Or are you just upset about your husband, and his _'certainly attractive enough'_ best pal making friends?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"I'm sure you would like to think so," she replied sweetly, her eyes flashing in warning, "But really, you have your fun boys."

"Yes do," Luna chimed in, "Hermione and I are going into Muggle London with Ginny and Fleur. A witch in Fleur's office has just come out of a long-term relationship, so we are taking her out to bars with the hope of meeting someone."

The look on Antonin and Rabastan's faces suggested this was news to them. Reuben sat back in his chair with a smirk as he watched his friend circle a hand around Hermione's wrist as they began a furious conversation all under their breath.

He was happy for him, though he didn't want what he had, not really, maybe if he had met someone earlier it would have been different, but not now. Reuben was happy enjoying his freedom. He had spent his years in Azkaban planning everything he would do when he left, granted he had not factored in this merry band of misfits, but they amplified his life, never took away. He had more than he ever thought possible because of them. He was still a pureblood, though, the last scion of an old and ancient name and Reuben had enough pride in it left to start thinking about provisions for the future. Antonin had confided in him recently, after far too much firewhisky, that he and Hermione _might_ be ready to try for children soon. Yaxley had slapped him on the back, and after the Russian had clumsily stumbled through the floo later that evening, he began making plans to have their second child named as his heir. It was a relatively safe bet they would have two, both had been only children, and both would have loved a sibling, both had gone on to choose their own.

Reuben reached forward to pour himself another generous glass of wine and privately toasted his life.

* * *

Rabastan aggressively dusted himself off as he stepped out of the floo, the hand movement did nothing to dislodge the incredible amount of mud and other grime that covered his robes. He had so far resisted donning the ridiculous clothing his brother found appropriate for life on his farm, but one more day coming home like this and he might have to consider it.

They had arranged to have the party at Dolph's small holding, there was plenty of space for the kids to run around, and it was Perdita's favourite place on earth. Rabastan would have felt jealous of his daughter's incredible love for his brother if he didn't know that he was number one in her eyes really, as petty as knew it was to worry about such things. He was the one she ran to if she fell over, or was worried about the monsters under the bed. He was the one dragged from whatever moment's rest he had managed to get, to see some creature she had found, whether real or imaginary. Keeping up with his daughter, and wife, was exhausting, and it was positively the best form of exhaustion in existence.

Dolph had contacted him the week before to let him know he had brought Perdy a pony for her birthday, which was a fine idea, it would be kept on the farm, at very little inconvenience to Rabastan, and so he had heartily agreed. That was until this morning, when he was summoned to help with the delivery. _How hard can it be?_ He had thought, then he was stood outside a container trying to corral the animal into the custom built pen with his brother. It was safe to say that Voldemort would probably not have been impressed that two of his inner circle were repeatedly outsmarted by a creature that barely came up to his waist, but there it was.

Rabastan rose up the stairs, still grumbling to himself; one thing was for certain, his brother could attempt to put the bow he'd brought for that brute on himself, Rab frowned as he flexed his hand, remembering the bite marks that littered his fingers.

Seeing how far the sun had fallen in the sky, he moved into his bedroom quietly finding it softly illuminated by a charmed bunny nightlight he had made for his girl the year before, contrived to look like his wife's Patronus, that she often conjured for Perdy to ‘scare the bad dreams away’. The spectral hare worked on his baby's nightmares the same way his wife's presence did for his own.

Rabastan’s eyes fell to the bed and the two separate masses of soft blonde hair poking from underneath the covers. Luna was asleep on his side, something she often did if she went up before him, and Perdy was in the middle, curled up in her mother's front, her head resting under Luna's chin. Rabastan felt his heart swell. He still had times where he felt almost completely overwhelmed, and even scared, of _how_ he felt, _how much_ he felt, but it was easier now he had an anchor, or two.

Recently he could see why Xeno had found it so difficult; the similarities were easy to pick out when you saw them like this, both at peace. You would typically miss the incredible likeness between mother and daughter when they were awake, Luna was everything serene, and Perdy was a ball of endless energy.

Rabastan had been terrified when he first went to meet his would-be father-in-law, he didn't exactly have the best prospects for someone's daughter on paper. He was twice her age, had a criminal record as long as his arm and had nothing to show for himself, other than surviving prison but, for some reason, Xeno had accepted him anyway. He had never had a cross word or seen anything but a warm disposition from him, up until Perdy was two.

By that age, her little features had started to set, and the wizard walked through the floo one day to see his grandchild clutched in his daughter's lap only to stop dead in the doorway and run back out. Luna had looked up alarmed, and Rabastan had chased out of the house, through the floo, to find Xeno slumped in his room, clutching a series of pictures to his chest while tears fell silently down his face. Rabastan saw it then, Pandora and Luna, Luna and Perdita. He awkwardly hugged the older wizard and left a significant amount of firewhisky on the kitchen side before inviting him to lunch in two days’ time.

Xeno had come, there was never any further visible sign of distress again, but Rabastan saw it sometimes, lurking in the back of his eyes. From one haunted man to another, the residual pain was an easy spot.

Rabastan had a quick shower before drying his hair and jumping into bed on Luna's side, smelling the lavender of her perfume, curling himself around his daughter and kissing his wife's forehead. He was grateful she was already asleep, he would never admit as much, but he had been a little worried about facing her.

Hermione had stopped at the manor earlier in the day, and as much as she had tried to carry on a normal conversation, it was clear from the moment she had stepped into the room she had something on her mind, it was a running joke just how bad a liar she was. As it turned out she had been out with some of the girls from Hogwarts, Rabastan fought the sneer that threatened to cross his face; he had no time for the ‘friends’ that his niece supposedly had while she was at school, bar a _very_ select few. They had all done very little to help her when she needed them; a lesser person would have crumbled under all that public scrutiny but not her, it had spurred Hermione on.

She relayed some news she had heard with a deliberately casual air, to purposefully offhand an air, _not enough time around Slytherin's yet love._

"What is it you want to know Hermione?" he had asked impatiently.

"I heard it mentioned that some of the girls from Hogwarts, from around the time I was there, were reporting strange incidents," she said nonchalantly, inspecting her fingernails.

"Strange incidents?" he asked with practised indifference.

"Yes, very strange. Some of their possessions seem to be going missing," Hermione said with raised eyebrows.

"And this is of interest to me because?" he questioned disdainfully.

"Well, it isn't something I would usually tell you about, I know how you hate idle gossip, but when I asked for specifics you'll never guess what I found," she declared.

"Amaze me," Rabastan drawled, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"All of the items appear to be _shoes._ "

"Fascinating."

"Isn't it? Not just that, but all the girls affected were in Ravenclaw house, and the incidents seem to have started three years ago. The date seemed significant, and you wouldn't believe it, it started the week after we all went to Provence, do you remember uncle? When we all had far too much elf made wine and were talking about times when we had lost our temper, Luna told the story of me shouting at the Ravenclaw Prefect and why." Hermione abruptly stood then, placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. "If I could speak to that person I would probably advise them to stop now; the point has been made, after all, they are Ravenclaws, they will figure it out eventually."

"I'm not so sure they deserve it to stop," Rabastan muttered petulantly.

"Maybe not, but Luna would want yo… _that person_ , to do so," Hermione said with a small smile.

"They thought about doing worse first," he admitted quietly.

"Oh?"

"It was never just stealing was it, it was torturing someone, targeting someone vulnerable and different… I… _They_ thought about removing their feet first," he said calmly, truthfully.

Hermione paled slightly, "I think the shoes was a better plan in the long run."

Rabastan waved his hand to dull the nightlight further and pulled himself closer, wrapping an arm around his wife and signing as Perdy twisted in her sleep to snuggle around his middle. Kissing the top of her soft blonde head he was asleep in moments.

* * *

Severus was in his shop, which was not unusual. Since it had opened, he spent most of his time there, and had eventually decided to purchase the small flat above when it came onto the market, making it easier to carry on with tasks once the doors were closed. What was also not unusual was that he was ruminating with growing desperation, on what he could do to shut the witch next to him up. Hermione had only got there twenty minutes before, but her excited twittering had been none stop since the moment she walked through the door. It was throwing off his stock check as well as ratcheting his already tense nerves.

The bell above the door rang, cutting the witch off immediately as they both snapped their heads to the entrance expectantly. A short, balding man with an eccentrically styled robe and a pencil thin moustache stepped in, "I'm looking for-"

"Fuck off," Severus snapped in reply, patience at zero following his irritation with Hermione. The wizard blustered before leaving, swearing never to enter the store again, and Hermione burst into laughter as the door closed, finally letting go of the mirth she had been barely holding onto all morning.

"I take it that wasn't them then?" she said with mock innocence, and Severus narrowed his gaze at her.

"Really, Hermione, really?" he spat.

"Well, I don't know Severus, you've been so secretive," she retorted, eyes alive with amusement, before she went back to the labelling he had asked her to do, in the slim hope that she would do _anything_ but bother him. "But seriously you should be nicer to customers, you don't exactly _invite_ people to feel welcome, and that won't help trade," she chastised softly.

"Why thank you Mrs Dolohov, for your _scintillating_ consultation on economics. Do I get these insights for free pray? Or should I be paying you on top of your day rate?"

"You don't pay me, Severus," Hermione grumbled, as she fiddled with the bottles on the desk.

"Oh yes that's right," he responded happily, writing down the appropriate number and whipping his wand to return some small amber jars back to the proper shelf.

"I didn't have to come in to cover for you today,” Hermione retorted, hands on her hips, “Luna could have done it."

"No!" he snapped immediately.

"Why?” Hermione protested loudly, her grin giving away her attempt at ignorance, “She's great with people."

"She moved around _everything_ when I went out last week; the entire stockroom was rearranged, I couldn't find anything and had to redo the whole bloody thing."

"Oh."

"Yes oh, and the dippy woman had done it in colour order, that room, my haven, that is dank by _express design_ , looked like a fucking rainbow," he groused.

Hermione was still trying to suppress laughter when the bell rang again, and as before they turned towards it, only this time, it wasn't another customer.

Severus had met Astrid six months before when she had come into his shop, and they had disagreed over the potion ingredient she needed. Somewhere, in the midst of the half an hour they spent finding new ways to call each other incompetent Severus realised he was enjoying himself, and in an impromptu, and slightly inelegant way, he invited her for a drink, they had been seeing each other since. He hadn't introduced her to anyone in the circle yet, they were a tight group, and as much as he was fond of them, he felt protective of Astrid, _his witch_. Severus wanted to make sure she was comfortable, his rather sketchy plan had been to stage a brief meeting between her and Hermione, when they wouldn't feel like they were in a formal setting. So he had asked his friend to cover for him for a couple of hours that afternoon and asked Astrid to meet him at the shop. It would have been the perfect plan if it hadn't been clear that Hermione had sussed him automatically.

Severus would never have admitted it out loud it, but Hermione’s good opinion was vital for him. Lily may have been his first friend, but Hermione had been his truest. It had taken him two years to get over her; he was pleased he could say, with honest sincerity, when he spoke to her on her wedding day, as she dragged him to dance, _very much against his will_ , that he was happy for her. Sometimes he still had echoes of those feelings, when she said or did something specific, but in the main, his love for her was that of a friend, a very dear friend.

The speed and vehemence of his feelings for Astrid had taken Severus by surprise, she was in her late thirties and had been brought up in Germany, coming to the England after the fall of Voldemort to work for St Mungo's as a consultant Healer, specialising in diagnostic care.

When Astrid came through the door, and his best-laid plans were realised Severus found it difficult to speak, Hermione looked between them both and took control.  

"Err, hi I'm Hermione, Severus' friend," she said, extending her hand to Astrid.

"Employee," he retorted, eyeing his from his side of the counter.

"Chum?" she tried.

"Colleague."

"BFF?" she pressed with a grin, and he scowled at her

Astrid looked at them with a smile, "Hello Hermione, I'm Astrid, Severus has told me all about you."

"Really?” she said excitedly, “he tells me _nothing_ about you, no matter how much I hound him," she rattled off before putting her hand up to shield her mouth and whisper-yelled, "honestly I think he's quite smitten."

Astrid flushed, a beautiful pink bloom erupting on her cheeks and Severus mentally prepared a list of all the ingredients on the premises that would kill his _chum_ in an instant.

In the end it was an hour before he departed for lunch, and though he groused about being sent away to get tea, when he came back to find the two witches sharing a joke Severus stopped for a moment, until they both turned to look at him with soft smiles. He covered his relief, surprise and gratitude with a cough and grumbling about being treated worse than a servant, but neither of the smiles aimed at him dimmed.

Severus had all he had ever wanted, he had never had ambitious plans for his life but he had exceeded them. He was safe, free, happy and even though he still struggled to comprehend how it had happened, he was loved.

* * *

Rodolphus ran after Perdita through the long grass at the back of his property. Considering she was so small, she was incredibly fast, and he was hindered in his gate as he was still trying to adjust to the new style of clothing Hermione had brought him. After he had settled into life on the farm, she had come over with a huge bag full of overalls and rubber boots she called 'wellies', bringing a set for herself and a tiny pair for Perdy so they could all trudge around the grounds together. Rodolphus didn't think he had ever been happier in his life than he was that day, after reluctantly donning the clothes and feeling a total fool he took them both on a tour, Hermione clutching the then tiny Perdy to her chest, while he pointed out all the improvements he had made and she listened excitedly.

Rodolphus saw his daughter once a week, a year previous she had _finally_ taken up his offer of sitting in the Lestrange seat at the Wizengamot. They would discuss politics, reform, or just their lives, over tea or ale, that she was slowly getting him to like, as _that was what proper farmers drunk_ , according to her.

Rodolphus thought back to when he had first found out about Hermione, how he had loved her instinctively, never even considering any other emotion, from the moment he had seen her in the Department of Mysteries he had _known_ beyond any doubt, that she was his child, and he had loved her. Over the last five years, he had grown to like her on her own merit, for the witch she was, for her heart and most of all, for her failings. She was so like her mother it made his chest hurt sometimes, when he considered what might have been. Those thoughts were always quickly driven away; he had her now, she had given him another chance.

Rodolphus had just caught his niece and hauled her over his shoulder when he heard gate close in the distance. "Daadd!" Hermione called, and he spun immediately making Perdy giggle, his face broke into a broad smile at the sound of her address and the sight of his girl's curls bouncing as she ran over to them.

Hermione had only started calling him that a year before and it had all started fairly innocuously. They had been at 'family dinner' sitting beside each other, and she had turned, barely looking up at him from her plate, ‘can you pass me the salt please Dad?’. The entire table had frozen in place, in time with the stopping of his own heart, a deep flush had fallen over Hermione's face, and she tried to apologise, the words getting confused as they streamed out of her mouth. Rodolphus had cut her off by gripping her hand tightly, and passing her the salt, ‘here you are Hermione’ he had said in response. He noticed a couple of tears fall down her cheeks as she reached for the cellar, whispering a barely audible ‘thanks, Dad’. It had taken almost everything he had to not cry right along with her; he saved that till he was home and had worked his way through half a bottle of firewhisky, choking out happy tears and grinning till his face hurt.

Hermione made it over to them and scooped her cousin out of his arms. "Hello perfect girl," she sing songed as she gave Perdy a fierce hug, "Is someone looking forward to her party this weekend?"

"YES!" Perdy called, "Ducks, Auntie Mi!" she screamed as she wriggled from Hermione’s grasp and dragged them towards the pond. The ‘ducks’ had been a gift from Yaxley, who had somehow procured five black swans and two dwarf white ones. Reuben had found this joke incredibly funny and liked to wind Hermione up about the stature of the white birds in particular. When they had come back a week after the ducks had been rehomed, it was to find one of the black swans had taken a shine to the bird Perdy referred to as ‘Mi duck’, and was keeping her boxed into one end of the pond, away from the others. The Northern wizard had laughed till he was almost sick.

Perdita skipped off to the water's edge, knowing by now from their many, many conversations on the subject not to go any further and he turned to Hermione.

"What brings you out here during the week?"

She reached into the pocket of her overalls and pulled out a single piece of paper, handing it over to him, as Rodolphus looked at her pensive face, lip caught between her teeth with some trepidation. When he turned the parchment over he felt the air leave his body in a single rush. "Is this?" he asked softly, his brain not capable of a full sentence.

"Yes," she affirmed, her eyes brimming with tears, but a smile beginning to tug at her lips.

Very uncharacteristically Rodolphus leapt forward, lifting Hermione off the ground and spinning her around until she screamed, he let her feet touch the floor but pulled her to him tighter. "When did you find out?" he spoke, stunned by the awe like quality to his voice.

"Today. I came here from the healers; I wanted you to know first," she said, her face splitting into an excited grin.

He did cry then; he couldn't have done a thing in the world to stop the flow of tears that left his eyes. Rodolphus dropped a kiss to her forehead. "You have made me so happy Hermione."

"Thank you, Dad," she coughed, "but _no telling,_ I want to tell Antonin after the party ok?"

"Won't he be angry that you told me first?"

"Maybe a little, but I… I wanted to give you this."

He nodded and hugged her again, "Thank you, love, just… thank you.”

Perdy rushed over again, eager for attention which Hermione happily gave her. Rodolphus looked back down at the parchment in his grasp and then across at the girls playing in the grass before he roughly wiped away the tears that had escaped his eyes and released a watery chuckle.

* * *

Hermione ran through the halls of the Ministry, dodging anyone who might want to speak to her with shouted apologies called out over her shoulder. The emergency session that morning had come as a complete surprise, setting her back her preparations, not that there was a great deal left to do. She made it to the floo and hurried through into the townhouse straight into Antonin's study, to find him regarding her panting form and disarrayed robes with soft humour. "Where's the fire wife?" he called teasingly.

Hermione sighed, "Antonin you know what today is, why are you not ready?"

"I am ready,” he replied with mock affront, gesturing to his burgundy robes, “I'm just waiting for you."

Hermione huffed before heading to the bedroom; she had chosen a beautiful white sundress for the day, it was simple, though the colour was probably a bad choice considering it was a children's party. Her dad had managed to put down some decking in one of the fields, close to the farmhouse, and a tent for all of the food and to escape the sun, which meant she could wear her sandals. She took immense care in dressing, not because she worried about her appearance as a general rule, but she was apprehensive about having some of the _others_ there, not that she expected any comments, these people were her friends, but she couldn't help but remember some of the harsh words of the Prophet over the years, it was enough to make her want to present an image of how _fine_ she was.

They were all nervous about the day, and it was manifesting itself in different ways. Antonin had been hovering the whole week, they had been together so long now, and had done so much for each other, it wasn't like he doubted her constancy but pressure somehow could make him forget himself, get him to think that someone could say something that would make her want to reconsider her choices. It would never happen.

Hermione winced as she tried to clear her mind for the third time to place the glamour on her arm, it was too hot for a cardigan. As she was attempting to centre herself yet again, a firm hand gripped her around the wrist, and her husband pulled her body into his before reaching over her to cast the charm himself. They both watched the magic dissolve into her skin before looking at each other in the mirror in front of them.

"You don't usually wear that?" Antonin  said carefully, eyeing her face and dropping his head to the exposed flesh of her shoulder, his short beard itching in a way that made her stomach tighten.

"Not with family," Hermione corrected, leaning her head against him.

He nodded, "Are you still sure it was best to invite them?"

"Yes," she lied, "it's best for Perdita."

He nodded again, "I know," he murmured, before nuzzling into her neck, "I just hate you wearing that thing."

"I know," Hermione crooned, turning in his grasp to kiss his face.

* * *

Not even an hour later, Hermione was running around at her dad's small holding, arranging food and helping Luna with the final preparations before the guests began arriving. Reuben had come earlier and was assisting with the movement of furniture with Antonin. Her dad was busy, trying to talk a pony into wearing a bow and Severus was coming along later with Astrid, he had suggested bringing her before everyone got there but Hermione had headed him off. The last thirty minutes before a party was hardly the best time to meet a new group of people, emotions were running high and Luna had already gone against type by screaming at Yaxley for a seemingly harmless comment he made.

Luna and Hermione were just finishing the cake when the floo activated, and Rabastan walked through, holding hands with Perdita. Hermione's eyes widened comically when she took in the sight of them. Luna had decided that it would make her daughter happy to have a fancy dress party, she had been shouted down, rather forcefully, when she had suggested extending that dress code to the adults. Luna had told Hermione earlier that Rabastan had been working on Perdy's costume with his daughter for weeks, in secret, which was why she now couldn't understand how she was looking at her cousin _covered_ in purple balloons. To the extent that all she could see of her were her little legs poking out of the bottom and her face from the nose up, the top of her head covered in paper leaves.

"What is that?" she asked stunned.

"It's a costume, Hermione," Rabastan answered shortly, seemingly bemused at her tone.

"That's not a costume Rabastan," she said, her voice heightening in disbelief.

"What are you talking about? Of course, it's a costume. She's a _Berry,_ " he retorted while pointing down at her, Perdita raised her head to smile broadly at her ‘Auntie Mi’, her face looking suspiciously like she had already been at quite a lot of sweets while in her father's sole care.

As Rabastan moved passed them to let Perdy outside, Hermione called after him, "How is she going to sit down?" He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'details'.

* * *

The party had gone off well despite Hermione’s more negative expectations. Harry and Ginny had come along with their three children and Ron with his two. Hermione didn't see much of Ron anymore, Harry and Ginny she still saw semi-regularly, mostly down to the redhead’s enthusiasm to escape her young brood from time to time, but in any case, she was grateful to see her friends. Fleur and Bill were also there, representing the Weasleys, their two young children had run around like lunatics, and Hermione and Antonin had laughed together over Yaxley's over the top flirting with Fleur, causing Bill to growl _loudly_ . Ever the sensitive soul that triggered Reuben to slip werewolf puns into almost every conversation when in the redhead's earshot, _bad werewolf puns_.

The only one not there was Neville. Hermione had bumped into him a few times since the war, each time more distressing than the last until, after a tearful conversation, they had decided to make an effort _not_ to see each other as much as possible. She heard from Ginny that he had married Hannah Abbott, and the pair had just had their second baby, it hurt her not to be part of his life but she understood it, she couldn't change her decision.

A few of Luna's friends from The Quibbler had made it along, and there were all kinds of acquaintances dotted about as well as, most unexpectedly, Malfoy. After helping her with the trials, herself and Draco had remained in a sort of indirect contact, occasionally having a rather formal tea together after Wizengamot sessions. He had gotten married to Astoria Greengrass shortly after Antonin's release, who Hermione thought was just lovely, and their son Scorpius was around the same age as Perdy. When Hermione spotted the familiar white hair across the grass, she felt the tall form of Antonin begin to shake behind her with poorly suppressed laughter. "What is it?" she whispered, anxious to know what had caused such a rare response from him.

"Look down solnyshko," he said, right into her ear.

When Hermione did, she had a much harder time of keeping herself in check. Standing at the side of his father, Scorpius Malfoy was the model of a pureblood future scion, steely face, straight-back, undeniable poise, disdainful expression, and dressed as a fucking apple.

"Fruit salad," Antonin deadpanned, and it was the last straw, Hermione laughed till she was nearly on her knees, her mirth helped along when Rabastan noticed his daughter skipping along with Scorpius moments later and went chalk white.

Draco marched to her side, scowling at her. "Don't laugh Granger."

Antonin sneered, "Dolohov."

"Fine don't laugh, _Dolohov,_ " Draco amended with an exasperated roll of the eyes. "I brought him _perfect_ dress robes for the occasion, but he made that monstrosity with my wife, and refused to leave the house in anything else, he can be so bloody precious at times, I have no idea where he gets it from."

"Really Malfoy, you have none?" she asked incredulously.

* * *

It was very late by the time Hermione climbed the stairs to bed, Antonin had stayed behind to speak to Yaxley, and she was in desperate need of another shower. She walked past all of the pictures on the wall, silently adding to her mental list that they needed to get some newer ones added.

When Hermione made it into their bedroom, she reached into her nightstand and pulled out her latest book, before walking over to Antonin's side of the bed, kicking off her heels in the process. She sat on the edge, looking at the small collection of photos he had there, a picture of his parents, a couple of the pair of them smiling at the camera on their various adventures, and a tiny folded frame with two sides, both filled with the pictures he had taken from the Prophet all those years ago. The images were badly faded after his time in Azkaban, and she supposed he could have easily replaced them, but they meant so much more than the mere likenesses they presented.

To Hermione, they were symbols of his instant devotion, his constancy, and the adversity they had overcome. Her whole life had changed because of this man, but even before that, she had been set on a different path when her mother had asked her to open her mind, and her heart, to other people. Without that conversation none of this, her life as it was, would ever have happened, Hermione would never have known this sublime happiness.

It was that thought that had finally allowed Hermione to forgive her mother, and almost forgive herself for what she had done to save them. Because of the woman Jean Granger was, she had made Hermione receptive to the life she now had, one filled with endless possibilities and love.

Hermione reached for her book and opened the hardcover, the pages instantly falling to reveal a small piece of paper, the same piece that she had shown Rodolphus earlier in the week, she hoped the reaction would be just as positive.

Touching the border delicately Hermione’s eyes fell on the little graph on the side, tracking the rise and fall of the twin heartbeats, and she placed her hand on her stomach as she positioned the sonogram in front of Antonin’s treasured pictures before disappearing into the shower.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This new extension is for Jasperandgemma (thank you for the request lovely!), and I am posting to celebrate the redraft of this entire fic, which is now live. This has been something of a monumental undertaking, every word has been reconsidered, and around 40k new ones have been added to the overall length. Big bestie love to Kreeblim Sabs who kept me sane while I worked on this, thank you for listening to my endless whining.

Antonin walked through the townhouse floo, pausing to dust off the remnants of soot, before making his way up the stairs. Yax had wanted to stay for another drink, as usual, but Antonin had declined. He hadn't seen a lot of Hermione over the last couple of weeks, and he was eager to get home to what he hoped, was a slightly less preoccupied wife. Between sessions at the Wizengamot and last minute party plans, they had barely been in the same room for more than an hour in days. Antonin missed her, missed how she would let herself relax when it was just the two of them. Hermione was a caregiver, it was inherent in her nature, but when it was just them, she would let go, at least for a moment, and allow him to take over. Until she wanted to smother him in affection, which he protested, in the mildest forms imaginable.

Antonin felt all of his years when climbing the stairs, stopping for a moment to rest his hand against the gilt frame of their wedding picture as he continued his ascent. The party had made for a full on day, and despite the ample moments of hilarity, he was tired, bone tired. Hermione and Luna had been correct, as they so often were, it had been the right thing to do to invite more people. Perdy had been in her element, running around, getting messy with the other children, once her balloons had been removed. Even though it had made him tense so often throughout the afternoon that his shoulders now ached, it had been worth it.

When Antonin made it into their bedroom he heard running water in the adjoining bathroom and, hoping he could convince his wife to remain in their rooms for the rest of the evening, Antonin lit a fire in the ornate fireplace at the back of the room. Hermione’s sanctuary might have been the sunroom, but his was the bedroom. They had extended it years before, putting in the cosy, snug-like area on the far side, and moving in some comfortable chairs. Once he had showered, he wanted to spend the remains of the day languidly planning their next trip away. Somewhere warm, tropical, somewhere secluded, where he could hole up with Hermione and map the contours of her skin to his heart's delight.

Antonin shrugged off the outer jacket of his robes and sat down on his side of the bed to take off his shoes. Something caught his eye as he bent to untie his laces, something that was blocking a treasured picture of himself and Hermione, one so familiar that he could recall from memory. Both of them smiling up at the camera, their heads resting against each other on soft white pillows. His hand, that had come up automatically, began to shake a little, it was a minute tremble, you could barely see it on his wrist, but by the time the vibration reached his fingers, it was almost violent.

Antonin picked it up, the parchment square, unsteadily, and sucked in a breath, moving to set it down safely on the cover of the bed, lest he drop it and somehow creased or mark the grayscale image.

Heartbeats.

His mind supplied the word, drawing out the sound until it remained on a prolonged hiss at the s.

Heart. Beat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat _ s _ .

When he rose to his feet Antonin felt his blood travel to his feet, and he wobbled slightly, but he didn't hang around long enough to wait for his equilibrium to return. Instead, he ran, as if death itself were on his heels, straight into the steamed up bathroom. He fumbled with the frosted glass shower door for a panicked moment, until he could wrench it open, and walk, fully clothed, inside.

Their shower was a large, and one of the myriad improvements they had made to his family home when they had established it as  _ their _ home. Usually it would feel as if there was ample room, in fact, Antonin spent a significant portion of his existence showing Hermione  _ just  _ how much room there was _ , _ but right now it felt as if the condensation lined walls were pushing in on him. Antonin closed his eyes, trying to will himself to concentrate on the sensation of the water cascading against his head, instead of the burning behind his eyes and in his lungs. He was positive Hermione must have been saying something,  _ how could she not have been, after his unexpected arrival? _ But he couldn't hear her; all noise was drowned out as he lost himself to the panic brought on by extreme emotion.

It was like this at the start, when he had first got out, Antonin couldn't use the shower without violent memories surfacing. The sound of the sliding door too similar to the slamming of cells. The space sealing around him made him want to smash through the glass, to ball up his fists and pound at the toughened surface until he shattered it. The door would close, and he would have to fight the urge to tear the ‘too-white’ tiles from the walls, one by one if he had to, to break the cage.

It was different if she was there. Antonin had resented the idea of asking, admitting just how badly he was functioning, but as it turned out, he didn't have to. For the first month after he was released Hermione followed him around everywhere, barely leaving his side for a moment. When the first crash of rage came, it was when he had tried to take a shower, only two days after she had clung to him on the jagged rocks. He had panicked as the steam billowed around him, then, he heard her voice, cutting through the fog like a lifebuoy tossed to a drowning man. Hermione’s words soothing him as she sat, crouched on the other side of the bathroom door, not even seeing him, and yet, still able to anticipate his pain.

Antonin had been worried at first that Hermione would leave him, despite everything she had done, he convinced himself that she couldn't have been expecting the man he was now. Broken and struggling to adapt, dependant on booze to sleep, and company to keep the demons away, slipping into the madness that by that point felt inevitable.

Then he realised how much she needed him too.

The first time Antonin made to leave the townhouse with Yaxley for a drink, intending to test his tolerance for the outside world and hard liquor, Hermione had a breakdown. Her anxiety boiling over, and releasing a surge of feeling that she had evidently been bottling up for far too long. ‘What if they take you away again?’ She had screamed as he resorted to holding her against a wall, her limbs flailing violently, ‘I can’t be alone again Antonin, I can’t do it again’. It was then that he remembered all of those months that he had prayed for her, wished that she would lean on him with her troubles. 

‘It ripped out my heart’, she sobbed as he pulled her into bed, wrapping himself around her as she all but clawed at his skin, he realised then how much strength she had lost.

So he took her away.

They spent time convincing each other they were real, getting to know the people they were now, without the threat of constant war or separation. Through it, Antonin thought he might have picked up who he was, where the holes were, and he let her smooth them over. He woke up with Hermione in so many different places, sometimes a different location each morning, always turning to regard the little witch in his arms before he looked out at the new vista. He learnt everything there was to know about her, her body, her mind, her soul. Antonin fell in love with her again, every day. Hermione was everything he had never known that he had needed and now, now she was giving him more.

The roaring sounds in his ears dissipated and abruptly Antonin could feel small hands pressed against his forearms, wrapped around his sopping wet shirt.

“Antonin?”

He opened his eyes, looking into hers. “Is it… is it true?” he asked desperately, his voice as rough as sandpaper and fiercely urgent. Hermione looked back at him intently, as he lifted his shaking hand, the tips of his fingers just grazing against her belly button before they trailed downwards. Antonin laid his hand, his whole hand, against her stomach, feeling her soft skin that had been warmed by the flow of water. Her gaze had followed his movement before her head snapped up to face him again.

“Yes,” she said, her voice quavering, “Yes,” she repeated, nodding her head as he could see tears joining the water cascading down her face.

“Two?” Antonin asked choking a little. He shuffled forward, bending so he could drop his head to hers, swallowing before he moved his other hand to her delicate face, his fingers feeling the subtle movements of her jaw as she answered him.

“Two,” Hermione breathed out eventually, before crashing forward and resting her head against his chest, nodding against the saturated clothes sticking to his skin.

He needed her to be closer, to be able to look in her face, Antonin stepped back and placed both hands on her waist, gripping her firmly but gently, pushing her back against the shower wall and coaxing her slim legs to wrap around his hips. She closed her eyes as her head fell back against the wall.

“Thank you,” he whispered, as he kissed her eyelids. “Thank you.”

* * *

Antonin carried Hermione out of the shower, placing her on top of the sink and levitating a towel to wrap around her. Standing in front of her, gently drying the damp curls that were stuck to her head.

“Antonin,” she chastised, “you need to get out of those wet clothes.”

His mind couldn't have been further away from himself at that moment but noticing the set of her jaw, he shrugged out of his shirt, his eyes falling from hers again. He parted the towel she was encased in before he stepped out of his trousers placing his hand over her stomach, as if more delicate touches would convince him it was actually happening.

“How long have you known?” he asked absently, kissing her forehead, and her temple, and her cheek.

“A week. I thought I might have been before that; I kept being sick, and when Luna kept looking at me funny-”

“You’re sick?” he interrupted, the sharp jerk of his head sending drips from his wet hair onto Hermione’s bare legs. She tutted, reaching forward to brush the damp locks of his face.

“I’m fine,” she reassured, “It’s normal.”

Antonin nodded, wiping his hand over his mouth, he imagined that was going to happen often, he already knew he was going to be unbearable, and it hadn’t even started yet. He rubbed the towel over her flat tummy, imagining a swell that wasn’t yet there. 

He would have to find a book, something that would at least stop him from having a heart attack before the baby,  _ babies _ , arrived. Something to read when he could take time out from what would likely be continual adding to the wards.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Originally posted on FF.NET has recently been re-edited so will be posting over here.


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